


Seven Seconds

by a_xmasmurder



Series: The World of 'Seven Seconds' [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, Strike Back
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Zombies, And no one understands emotions, And some people are stronger than others, Angst, Danger, Everyone's screwed up in the head, F/M, Freakouts and meltdowns, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, No one knows what is going on, Other, The AU where Sally and Anderson are actually good people, The Beginning of the End, The people you care about the most are the ones you keep around you, The relationships here are rather ambiguous, Thriller, Urban warfare, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:11:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 142,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If someone had told Sherlock Holmes that the dead could walk the earth once more, he would have laughed. Loudly. For a straight week. But he's not laughing now. Because in seven seconds, his whole world changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Novel - length zombie!AU story.  
> This is a REALLY LONG WIP (a NaNoWriMo), and I will try to knock these chapters out as fast as possible. Unfortunately, there is this thing called REAL LIFE.
> 
> So basically, this is my first fan-fiction (technically second, but shorts don't count for me right now :P ), and my foray into two of my favorite things: Sherlock and zombies.
> 
> I do not claim to be an expert on anything herein, so if something is hinky, let me know! I do research as much as I can, everything else is heresay and heresy.
> 
>  EDIT: I have another character. It's all Roane and Kryptaria's fault. That's my story and I'm sticking to it :) Will be showing up in Chapter 16 :)
> 
> EDIT AGAIN: Another character or three have snuck their way into this thing. They show up in Chapter Twenty. *headdesk* This one is entirely my fault.
> 
> Thank you to everyone in Antidiogenes for...well, EVERYTHING.
> 
> Sherlock Holmes, e.t. all, belong to Sir ACD, The BBC, Steven and Mark, and all legality mumbo-jumbo stuffs blah blah blah. John Porter, e.t. all, belong to their respective legal owners and such. 

**Day (-10)**  
 **New Scotland Yard**  
 **1400 UST**  
  
    "I'm not sure I'm following you, Sherlock." Lestrade sighed and tossed the case folder onto his already cluttered desk. "We have already gone and talked to Mr. Sainsbury twice."  
"I know that, you idiot! I'm telling you he is lying. Look at these receipts, he obviously was not at the house when he claims he was, and neither was her brother. The butler, however, was. Don't you see?"  
Sally Donovan and John Watson stood back against the glass wall sipping their coffees. There was no way they were getting involved in this one. Nope.  
  
  
 **Day (-9)**  
 **Lauriston Gardens**  
 **0236 UST**  
  
    Sherlock Holmes sat in the back of the ambulance with yet another hideous orange blanket draped over his shoulders. Honestly, when were they going to learn that he. Was. Not. In shock. Yes, the butler had knocked him out with a toaster when he let himself into the kitchen of Madame Marlene Huggard, then took him to (where else?) the empty flat a floor down from where Scotland Yard had found the lady in pink. Admittedly, a normal person would be in shock. He was most assuredly not normal.  
"How's the head?"  
John was in a bit worse shape than Sherlock was. A split lip, loose tooth, and a rather painful looking lump forming on the older man's temple didn't seem to temper his jovial mood, though.  
"I'm not in any sort of pain, and I don't have double vision. I believe we are good to go."  
"That's good, real good. Lestrade told me that he will get our statements tomorrow when he comes over to retrieve the five warrant cards you have nicked from him over the last month."  
Looked like beating the utter shit out of the murderer and the two slabs of beef with the man did wonders to John's overall mood. Sherlock would have to remember that. Possibly get a gym membership for the doctor's next birthday. The detective smiled.  
"Hungry? I know of this fantastic Mongolian grill not too far from here. The owner knows me."  
"Got him off a murder charge?"  
"No. Grand theft auto, actually."  
John laughed.  
  
 **Day (-7)**  
 **221B Baker Street**  
 **0546 UST**  
  
    John finally pulled the sweat soaked sheets away from his legs and swung his feet to the floor. The remnants of his night terror still floated around his mind, fueled by the adrenaline reaction of his body.  
God damn and bloody bollocks. Another sleepless night, and right before a surgery shift to boot!  
Bloody hell and ruddy well sod it!  
Downstairs, he could hear his flatmate tuning his Stradivarius. John held no illusions; the only reason that crazy man plays this early in the morning wasn't for Queen and country, nor for his boredom. As the consulting insomniac began to play a soft melody of some sort, the ex soldier tossed his soaked shirt into a hamper and got back into bed.  
He had no problem falling back to sleep.  
  
 **Day (-6)**  
 **King Street**  
 **0927 UST**

  
    "Not much to go one here, I know." Lestrade sounded almost apologetic. "I can give you ten minutes, no more."  
Sherlock waved his hand. "Go away and see what Anderson unearthed in the basement. It probably is something moderately important."  
The Detective Inspector tilted his head tiredly and shut the door behind him. As soon as the latch engaged, the detective spun around and went to work. Surprisingly, he didn't start with the body, but the dresser. John knelt down carefully (his damned leg was acting up again. Sometimes he wished that it would get the memo that it was no longer the most injured part of his body anymore so it could stop begging for attention) and looked into the young lady's mouth. He immediately found what Sherlock was looking for, but the detective was looking in the wrong spot.  
"Hey, Sherlock. Let's try the master bath."  
The smirk the tall man flashed his way said it all.  
"Yes, let's."  
  
 **Day (-5)**  
 **221B Baker Street**  
 **Who gives a good god damn, John's in a strop again!**  
  
    "Sherlock."  
"Yes, John?"  
"There is an entire pig carcass in the tub."  
A pause. "Yes, there is. Very good observation,"  
A very patient sigh. "You gonna do something about it?"  
"Well, not until the results have been recorded, of course."  
"Let me rephrase that. You are going to do something about the dead fucking pig in the god damned tub."  
"I said - "  
"Now, Sherlock."  
"But I haven't - "  
"Sherlock bloody Holmes, if you do not do something about the dead fucking pig in the fucking tub that I need to use right the fuck now because I need to get to the surgery before I get fucking fired, its new home will be in your _fucking_ bed."  
  
 **Day (-4)**  
 **221B Baker Street**  
 **1215 UST**  
  
    "News sources are saying very little about this outbreak of what some are calling 'a new strain of rabies'. It does seem to be isolated cases, though and the U.N. is keeping a close eye on the situ-"  
John jerked his head up and glared at his flatmate.  
"Oi, you git, I was watching that!"  
Sherlock snorted. "Who cares about that drivel. We've got a case!" The man rubbed his hands together. "A locked room theft of a highly valuable necklace, with no viable witnesses and no surveillance in the area at all, oh, it's Christmas!"  
John sighed in resignation. "Oh, fine, Sherlock. Fine!"  
  
 **Day (-4)**  
 **1123 Vine Street**  
 **1105 UST**  
  
Seven minutes after the chase began, it ended with a bang.  
Sherlock panted hard, adrenaline and a frisson of fear shooting through his veins. The echo of the firearm discharge still rang in the stale air. The silence was (for want of a better term) deafening. After the shouting and feet pounding on the concrete floors, the lack of any sound at all frightened him terribly. He stayed hidden behind some crates next to the number four gantry crane, in case one of MacDonald’s bodyguards were still wandering around. After a couple of moments, he couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to _know_ , damn it.  
"John?" His voice sounded hollow in the abandoned warehouse, and save for the echo of his words coming back to him, there was no answer to his question. 'Who had fired their gun?'  
"John!"  
He could hear sirens in the distance, no doubt in his mind that the calvary was on its way. But was it too late? Sherlock's heart rate jumped again in worry. Where was his friend?  
"Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you?"  
Oh, thank every single deity whom ever existed!  
"Near the number four gantry, John!"  
It didn't take long for the ex Army doctor to find him. John once again looked as though he had gotten into the ring with a bear, now his green pullover could be counted as a loss as well. That was unfortunate, because that was one of the few that Sherlock actually liked - well, if it was paired with something other than the ugly brown pin striped...thing the doctor liked wearing with it most days. Yet as the detective picked himself up from the cold concrete floor, Sherlock noticed that his best friend had a wide grin on his face.  
Another round won for the good guys, then.  
  
 **Day (-3)**  
 **221B Baker Street**  
 **1323 UST**  
  
    “A little help, Sherlock?"  
Sherlock peeked his sleep mussed head out the front door, toothbrush still in his mouth. The man's jaw dropped, letting the brush fall to the stoop.  
"What on Earth is all of this, John?"  
The doctor, whom, to Sherlock, seemed to be a bit cracked right now, dragged another bag out of the back of the cab and added to the pile of what amounted to pretty much the entire Tesco's store he had gone to three hours earlier.  
"What in God's name has gotten into you?"  
"Don't argue with me, just help, will you?"  
Curiosity winning over indignant confusion, Sherlock shut up and grabbed as many bags as he could carry. It took five trips total (a whole shopping bag full of powdered milk and TEN cases of beer?) to get everything into the kitchen where John immediately began unpacking. His shoulders had a strange tense quality to them. Sherlock could almost say 'military'.  
"John, I don't understand. Why the sudden hoarding?" The detective picked up twelve ( _really_?) cases of protein bars and placed them on the higher shelf above the entire world's supply of tinned beans and whole berry cranberry sauce. The digestives (oh, goody, three different kinds too!) went in the next cabinet next to the five billion cans of tuna fish and meat product ( _ugh_ ).  
John sighed. "Do you remember the news program I was watching yesterday?" He shoved the last box of tea into the lower cabinet...at least, he tried. It wouldn't fit. He tried again. Nothing. He grunted and tossed it onto the counter. Sherlock shrugged, not interested in that.  
"Yes, something about isolated cases of rabies making people attack each other in Africa. Boring."  
The doctor stiffened a bit more. "Well, cases have been showing up in China now."  
That gave Sherlock pause. Wait. In one day? Almost an entire world away, in one day? He blinked. That shouldn’t really be possible, not if it’s...oh dear. "You have a bad feeling."  
"Yeah. I do."  
  
 **Day (-3)**  
 **Tesco's Extra**  
 **2033 UST**  
  
    "Should we concern ourselves with wood paneling? I mean, I have enough in my account..."  
"Don't worry, Sherlock. Go ahead and get some."  
"Where are you?" The dark haired man scowled at his phone, pulling such a face that the store associate assisting him (assisting? really, all he was doing was pulling a huge deep freezer and three cricket bats behind him on a trolley. Tedious.) jumped a bit. Sherlock waved his hand at him.  
"Getting some extra things just - "  
"In case, yes, John, I get it. I just want to go on record saying that I believe you are over-reacting."  
"God, I hope I am."  
  
 **Day (-2)**  
 **New Scotland Yard**  
 **1130 UST**  
  
    "Have you guys been paying attention to the news?" Sally handed John, Sherlock, and Greg their coffees and leaned against the corner of the desk.  
Sherlock groaned around his cup. "Yes, we have. Exhaustingly. Never anything else anymore, it seems. It’s all so dull and boring. What do you people see in that idiot box with all the stupid people talking about things that don’t even matter anyway...”  
"What do you think of it? 'A new strain of rabies', they're calling it." Anderson smirked and shook his head, choosing to completely ignore the detective’s tirade. "Load of bollocks, I say."  
"It does seem to be traveling fast, though. First it was just some random cases in Africa, but now they are seeing 'outbreaks' in China, India...there's even a suspected case in Greenland!" Lestrade chewed on the end of his stir stick. "Doesn't sound like bollocks to me."  
"But how is it spreading? I get China and India - those countries' populations number in the billions. But from Africa to Greenland?" Sally shifted uneasily. "That's a bit of a stretch, yeah?"  
Sherlock tipped back in his chair, and fixed everyone in the room with a calculating stare. "Scientists from around the world travel to Greenland by air to study its ecosystem. Considering many come from Asia, that would be a viable vector for the rabies to travel. It stays dormant in the human body for days before symptoms begin to present. That is, if this is simply rabies. If it is something different, then it could be something entirely else entirely." A warble emanated from his breast pocket. "Ugh. It's my brother. He probably wants me to go to the little soiree that my mother is holding, but most likely he’s just calling to irritate me. Nonetheless, I must take this, excuse me."  
As Sherlock left the Inspector's office, John stood up. All eyes turned to him. His body language demanded - no, commanded - attention. Greg’s eyes narrowed. That was something new. Last time he’d seen John like this was back during the Baskerville case. John cleared his throat.  
"As far as I'm concerned, this could become something big. Global, even." He paused. "Maybe it already is. I don't know. I'm going to follow my gut on this. All I can really say is that it could be something as simple as rabies, or it could be much worse. I just want everyone to be ready for when it does happen, whatever it is. Write down your personal and work numbers so I can program them into my mobile. You can call me anytime, day or night. Keep in touch. The way this is going..." He stopped and ran a hand over his face and through his hair. “The way this is going, I’d want all the people I can get around me.” He held out his hands in a ‘hold on’ gesture. “I know, I know, I sound paranoid right now, but just trust me on this.”  
  
 **Day (-2)**  
 **St. Bartholomew's Hospital, The Morgue**  
 **1312 UST**  
  
    John found Sherlock carefully setting test tubes and petri dishes into a carry all. Molly was flitting around, grabbing bottles of liquid and other various substances and lab instruments. Though they were being thorough, the general feeling of the room was of urgency. Right. Not a good call, then. The doctor watched from the doorway for a couple of minutes, then announced to the room that he was going to pester Stamford for additional supplies.  
  
 **St. Bart's employee parking**  
 **1336 UST**  
  
    The backseat and boot of Molly's little Ford couldn't hold any more if it tried. There was everything from three 'trauma room in a bag' paramedic kits to a sterilization suite. John took off in a cab, saying something about a pharmacy over his shoulder. Sherlock sat in the passenger seat of the grey four door and twitched.  
"It's going to be bad, isn't it, Sherlock?"  
The consulting detective could only say, "Stop by your place and grab all you need."  
Molly nodded, a resolute mask on her pretty face.  
  
 **Outside Sainsbury's on Streatham High Road**  
 **1504 UST**  
  
    John stopped next to a cardboard box marked "Free puppies". No one was around, other than the other shoppers whom pretty much ignored the litter of English Bulldog pups. He knelt down in front of the box, and noticed that despite being left in a box in front of a drugstore, they had water and a bowl of crunchies, and a few squeaky toys to play with. They seemed healthy and happy. He stuck his hand into the box and the puppies went bananas over his hand, nipping and licking and chewing and yipping happily. John felt a smile forming as one in particular latched onto his little finger (the one that was scarred from a torture attempt) and suckled greedily. Barely weaned. Hell, he's always wanted a dog.  
  
 **221C Baker Street**  
 **1637 UST**  
  
    Sherlock opened the door to the stairs leading down to the basement flat, stepped back, and spread his long arms in welcome.  
"Make yourself at home, Molly Hooper. Welcome to 221 Baker Street. You can keep the body parts in the fridge upstairs in my flat."  
  
 **New Scotland Yard**  
 **1638 UST**  
  
    Greg Lestrade closed his eyes when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He put down the case file he was trying to finish (all this speculation and worry about a god damned disease that won't really hit here, it was bothering him something fierce) and took it out to look at the display. It was a text from - wait. Mycroft Holmes? The inspector’s face scrunched up. That infuriating man hasn't said boo since his younger brother got clean and off the streets. What the hell could he possibly want right now? Greg opened the text and read carefully.  
Then he read it again.  
"Oh, _shit_."  
He read it a third time, and would have read it upside down while whistling "God Save The Queen" if it would have done any lick of good. Didn't matter. Nothing changed.  
"Jesus Christ." The oath came out on a long breath.  
Sally popped her head in. "What's up, boss?"  
Greg looked at her, then showed her his phone. The text seemed simple and straightforward.  
 **\--------------------------------------------------------------**  
Text from: Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To: Gregory Lestrade  
1638 UST  
 _I don’t care how you do it, Detective Inspector Lestrade, just remove yourself from London immediately. Today would be grand. Tomorrow could work, but any later than that will be too late. I can’t stop this. - MH_  
 **\--------------------------------------------------------------**  
Sally gasped and handed the phone back to her boss. “What the hell is this?"  
“I don't really know, but -" Greg sighed and rubbed the back of his head with the hand not holding the phone. "- you know that vacation you put in for?"  
"Yeah?"  
"You have it. Get the hell out of London. Now."  
The sergeant's eyes widened. "What's happening?"  
Greg set the phone down on the file and steepled his hands. "I'm quitting tomorrow, and heading for parts unknown, just somewhere else, somewhere other than this place. Apparently, the shit is about to hit the fan, and I want to be gone before it does."  
  
 **221B Baker Street**  
 **1747 UST**  
  
    "Mrs. Hudson. I know Sherlock said that you really don’t want animals here in the flat, but I couldn’t leave him behind.”  
“Oh, don’t worry about it, young lady. It’s fine. Now, who is this?”  
“Um, well, this is Toby. Toby, this is Mrs. Hudson." Molly smiled as she talked, something she rarely did. Sherlock smirked at the exchange and wiggled his bare toes at Gladstone. He was already rather fond of the English Bulldog puppy that John decided to bring home. The detective just finished setting up the most elaborate laboratory he’d ever dreamed of in his bedroom, since he really wouldn’t be using it anymore. His bed was now Molly's. John donated his extra bedding.  
Mrs. Hudson cooed and hummed happily at the little grey tabby named Tobias.  
Sherlock sighed. If his brother was right (and as much as he loathed to admit it, Mycroft was rarely if ever wrong about anything, Sherlock’s virginity notwithstanding; it’s not like he sits on the phone and tells his brother about every bloody conquest he’d ever had in his life) this could very well be the last happy day they would experience again. The call from his brother had been simple and to the point.  
'Father wishes to speak to you about the deeds to the family estate.'  
This was a coded phrase, one that he and Mycroft made up as children playing at being super-spies. Changing one word would change the meaning entirely. This formation meant only one thing.  
'Get to safety, something horrible is happening and I can't stop it.'  
One only had to turn on the news to figure it out. Once you have eliminated the impossible whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth. Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out.  
This was apparently so much more than an outbreak of rabies. Sherlock rubbed his hands together to rid them of their prickly feeling. Hell, it wasn't even remotely rabies.  
  
 **Day (-1)**  
 **221B Baker Street**  
 **0901 UST**  
  
 **BREAKING NEWS: CHINA DECLARES NATIONAL EMERGENCY - ALL AIR TRAVEL TO AND FROM ASIA HAS BEEN SHUT DOWN DUE TO DEADLY RABIES OUTBREAK - PRIME MINISTER OF INDIA HAS DECLARED NATIONAL EMERGENCY AS OF 0730 UST THIS MORNING - CASES HAVE BEEN DISCOVERED IN SOUTH AMERICA, ITALY, GERMANY, ICELAND - GREENLAND HAS BEEN DECLARED A 'NO FLY ZONE' BY U.N. FORCES -**  
  
The ticker at the bottom of the screen kept going, but John was focusing now on what the news woman was saying.  
"No word yet as to what, exactly, this virus is or what caused it, or what it is doing and where it is going next. Authorities have ruled out intentional infection. The U.N. is holding an emergency summit in the next hour or so. Until we have further reports, we urge you all to stay calm. Do stay indoors, and avoid any and all contact with anyone who is sick or appears sick."  
John shook his head. He just...couldn't believe it. He wasn't going to say the word, because it just couldn't be - he could be wrong. He had to be wrong. God, he hoped he was...Gladstone snorted and whined, bumping John's limp hand. He smirked and scrubbed the pup's forehead. "Sorry, old boy. I'm thinking again."  
  
 **221B Baker Street**  
 **1310 UST**  
  
    "Mycroft called. He is sending as much details as he can by secure email. Print it out and hand it to me, someone."  
John looked up and over at the computer set out on the sitting room table. The printer sat right next to it. Sherlock sat next to it.  
“And why can’t you do it?”  
“I’m busy.”  
“Doing...what, exactly?”  
“Research.”  
John sighed and pushed himself out of his armchair. Molly relaxed on the couch and played with Toby and Gladstone with a string toy.  
“Yeah, fine, just hold on.”  
  
 **221B Baker Street**  
 **1536 UST**  
  
    "News is getting worse, Sherlock, much worse. There's already rioting in most major cities. They've got a live feed from Toronto on Sky News."  
Sherlock, Molly and Mrs. Hudson crowded onto the couch around John. Tobias and Gladstone both find suitable laps to lay on. And that's where everyone was when everything changed. Four things happened simultaneously.  
1) The throngs of rioters begun to fall in clusters and singly.  
2) Sherlock's phone announces a priority text.  
3) John's phone begins to ring.  
4) Sherlock lets out a string of invective so utterly inventive and jaw-droppingly obscene that even John stares at the man.  
  
    Within minutes, the newscasters and reporters go bat-shit because everyone at that riot lay on the ground, unmoving.  
Dead.  
Just as speculations of nerve gas and riot control get rolling, an off-screen cameraman whispers "Look."  
The reporter turns to see the first few people rising bonelessly from the pavement.  
The feed cuts out after seven seconds, which was rather fast, considering.  
But it was enough.


	2. Just Before the Storm, A Ray of Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yipee, Chapter One (well, two, but the first was a prologue... forgot to mention that.
> 
> Mmmm, I don't presume to know what a circular saw sounds like. Buzz sounded good to me.
> 
> The Pashto that John speaks I found on Swearasaurus. So whether or not it is correct.... *shrugs*
> 
> I think that is it for this chapter!
> 
> EDIT: I can't find the swear word anywhere anymore, so I changed it. It's still Pashto.

    Bang. Bang. Bang. Crash. “Bollocks!”  
  
Creak. Silence. Creak...bang. “Ha.”  
  
Bang. Bang. Bang. Scrape - bang. “Fuck, God _damn_ it, that smarts. Shit!” Bang. Bang.  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes and groaned. His back positively ached! What the hell, he usually slept on the couch just fine. What was going on now? Good heavens. He blinked slowly.  
  
Bang. Bang. Thunk. “Jesus _Christ_! Anderson, give me that ruddy hammer before you break my damned foot!”  
  
Sherlock sniggered. Anderson didn’t seem useful at anything, really. The (former) consulting detective’s left hand scrabbled for his mobile, finding it on the coffee table after knocking over the stack of notes he’d been working on the night before.  
  
07:36. Jesus. Before all of this...insanity began, he was lucky if he got up before tea, if he slept at all. Now his flatmate has begun to instill a sort of military routine to their days and nights.  
  
It was nice.  
  
Sherlock sat up slowly, as the ache in his lower back flared up.  
  
Bang...crack! Bang. Bang bang bang BANG. “Greg, bring that board higher. There you go. Now hold it -” Bang. Bang. Bang.  
  
  
  
  Wednesday had been the day the entire world changed completely. He knew it had been a Wednesday because it was ‘Dish Day’. Not that he ever _did_ dishes, but there it was.  
  
Seven seconds of news footage in Toronto destroyed the modern world, sent it into a tail spin that no one would come out of. Granted, yes, the whole Earth just so happens to be in the worst epidemic of...well...(let’s call it rabies, right now, even though we all know that isn’t true, now is it?), but it was the network’s frankly annoying tendency to throw reporters at every single riot, natural disaster and protest known to man that proved the downfall of civilized society. If you saw what the world saw that day, would you stay calm?  
  
God bless technology.  
  
He levered himself to his full height and twisted around to limber up.  
  
Bang. Bang. Swish. “Damn it, watch where you are swinging that thing, Anderson!”  
  
His sharp eyes took in the last bit of his beloved London he had available to him. 221 B Baker Street had to go through a full make-over to ensure that the new occupants had room to move around, let alone live.  
  
Buuuuuuzzzzzzzzz - CRACK. “Well, John, that did it!"  
  
    The sitting room had turned into a information base of some sorts, with his map of Central London on the wall overlooking the table full of electronics. John had managed to get his hands on some manner of rechargeable battery pack at the military surplus store, and both men’s laptops were plugged into the power supply, along with a wireless network modem, Gregory’s laptop and four smart phones (John’s, Gregory’s, Sally’s, and his own iPhone [debating on finding his old Blackberry- takes less battery charge and lasts longer- will look into getting it re-activated sometime when the world isn’t ending]). The table now also sported two more chairs, metal folding ones that Sherlock had found at the Tesco’s Extra. The days of organized clutter and random experiments lying around was over. Now his re-purposed bedroom held all of his casework and ongoing projects. He did miss John’s weary chuckles as he would dive into loose papers and file folders after weeks with no cases, but in a way, he didn’t mind the new way of things. The steer head still had its rightful place on the wall between the two front windows, and the skeleton still stood proud in the corner near the far window between two stuffed bookshelves (“Don’t worry, Sherlock. I firmly believe in preserving culture and society. Your books will be entirely safe from the fire bin.” “Good, I’d rather not invent a really brilliant way of murdering you. You could be useful during this disaster.” “HOLMES. For God’s sake!” ”Greg, he’s just kidding. You are kidding, right Sherlock?” A grin from the detective. “Perhaps.”). The space in front of the hearth, though, has changed. A couple of canvas bean bags and a grey comforter lay haphazardly on the floor just before the stone hearth. Three large dun colored duffle bags took up the space between the fireplace and his flatmate’s armchair. Behind the chair, an even bigger solid black steamer trunk sat, the bronze placard on the lid stamped with the name CPT. JOHN H. WATSON R.A.M.C.. Those four things held all of John’s worldly possessions. When the Scotland Yard MET team showed up on their doorstep just hours after the broadcast, John gave up his room out of friendship and a desire to stay on the lower floor ‘just in case’. Sherlock sighed. John was full of ‘just in case’s now. He didn’t like that, not one bit.  
  
Crack. Bang bang-bang bang. Slam. Crack. Silence. Buuuuuuzzzzzzzzz....  
  
Sherlock navigated around the new clutter that was their lives now and into the kitchen. There was now an actual table, one that could be used to feed people. And right about now, that was exactly what it was being purposed for.  
  
“Sherlock, dear, breakfast isn’t quite ready yet. You just go on down and call the boys up from all that hard work they are doing and tell them that the eggs are nearly done, but I haven’t quite gotten the sausage and bacon down yet.” Mrs. Hudson hummed and tittered around the small room, arranging slices of muffin and toast and orange slices and bananas and - Oh, GOD, so much food! It was brilliant! He hummed in agreement and did as his landlady asked.  
  
Crack. Buuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzzz. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Thunk - crack! “Holy hell, John, I think that did it! Finally got that window finished!”  
  
“Anderson, are you done with that saw yet?”      
  
“No!”  
  
“Well, hurry it up, we don’t have all day!”  
  
  
  
    The kitchen door stood open, and the sounds of construction nearly drowned out the soft music coming from the radio upstairs. A though cut through the early morning chemistry equations running through Sherlock’s brain (CuCNS+KIO3+HCl -- >HCN+CuSO4+ICl+H2O+KCl. Hmm) - Sally, running up the stairs to John’s (no, Greg’s and Tim’s) room after a rather entertaining row with both the former soldier and Greg (whom apparently had spent two years in the reserves to put himself through the Academy) about showers, for God’s sake! For once, the detective took pity on the woman. She must be having a rough time adjusting to their new life. By Jove, he was. The reality still hasn’t quite hit, but he was sure it would. Soon, maybe. When it did, he hoped he would handle himself with enough dignity that most wouldn’t notice that he was most likely shitting his pants.  
  
Bang. Bang. Bang bang-bang. Thunk-crack-crunch. “God damn son of a Punjab whore, khaow ray da ookhra!”  
  
Silence. “John, what the hell was that?” That was Lestrade, of course.  
  
“Damn near turned my thumb into paste, just now. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“No, what you just said?”  
  
“Pashto.” Sherlock stepped out onto the landing, and he could hear the conversation clearer.  
  
“You know...Arabic?”  
  
“Not Arabic, Pashto. It’s one of the main dialects of Afghanistan.”  
  
“Oh. What does it mean?”  
  
“‘I hope you die.’”  
  
Sherlock grinned. He’d never heard John speak in that language before - well, any other language, for that matter. He would have to find out just how much John knows. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Anderson sitting on the floor next to a circular handsaw, holding his right thumb in a death grip. Sherlock sees no red (must have just jammed it, then. Tedious.), and his grin turns wicked.  
  
“What’s your problem, freak?” Anderson sounded more ornery than usual. Definitely jammed.  
  
“Miss the target again, Anderson?”  
  
The forensics expert grumbled. “Your pet doctor told me to stay out here. Said I’d cause less damage.”  
  
“I heard that, you clumsy son of a bitch.” John’s voice had the high lilt signifying his good spirits.  
  
“So he put you next to a power tool. Idiot.” Sherlock began descending the stairs.  
  
“I heard that too, you tall daft bastard." A pause, then, “Sherlock! Don’t even think of coming down here in your bare feet, you berk.”  
  
The tall man froze. How in the blue hell did John do that? To test, he continued for a couple more steps.  
  
“There are nails and bits of splintered wood lying around on the carpet, Sherlock.”  
  
“What, exactly, is your point, John?” he shouted back.  
  
“Just letting you know what I’m going to be pulling out of your foot sans anesthetic later on, because I’m saving the good stuff for serious injuries.” The ex Army doctor walked out of what was now the women’s flat in all of his nearly shirtless, sweat soaked glory. A few years out of the military added some padding to his frame, but that did nothing to hide the tried and tested muscle bound to his arms and shoulders, and from what Sherlock could see through the unnecessarily tight black vest shirt the nights spent running after criminals throughout Central London had done well to keep his blogger in top form. Why, exactly, he was noticing all of this now, Sherlock could not tell. No matter. He pushed all of that drivel out of his head. John was still talking.  
  
“What did you say, John?”  
  
“I said, you wouldn’t want lockjaw, trust me.”  
  
Anderson must have finally disengaged the parking break on his brain, because he popped up with a scathing “And you are concerned why?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the high handed remark. “Because I am one of the reasons humankind will survive this disaster, Anderson.” The detective’s reply came on the back end of John’s snort.  
  
“Because he may be a dick, but at least he can swing a hammer with a modicum of accuracy. Sherlock, go up and get into some clothes, and get back down here. Greg and I could use your help.”  
  
  
  
    Sherlock still wore his suits.  
  
That was one thing John noticed. One thing of many that didn’t change. Sure, the tall bastard had jeans in his closet, and he had tee shirts, and that was all fine and good. But the man insisted on wearing his normal attire.  
  
“I can move just fine, John. I don’t need you to tell me what I can and can not wear during the zombie apocalypse.”  
  
And yeah, it was true, he could. Oh, hell, that man can _move_ in those bespoke suits and fancy Italian patent leather wing tips.  
  
But that wasn’t the reason, now was it?  
  
John had seen this before, in Afghanistan. Men and women would carry around little trinkets or papers from home as a reminder, or even as a talisman to ward off the horrors of the war zone. Something to remind them that there was still hope. A picture of family. A girlfriend’s necklace, or a hemp bracelet their little sister or brother or best friend bought them at the duty-free shop in the airport just before the last call for the plane that would take them away. One young man (Tully) kept a ratty old teddy bear tucked between his body armor and BDUs. The kid told everyone that it was his little brother’s. They all knew it was his. No one said a damned thing. You just don’t. It’s a coping mechanism or some jive like that.  
  
John himself did something similar. When he finally got out of that blasted hospital, he got his hands on three things as soon as possible: a Browning 9mm Hi-Power hand gun, a black and white shemagh, and a Ka-BAR fighting knife (Yes, granted, he didn’t use one in the military [save for the one time that his squad was stuck in a firefight next to a squad of U.S. Marines and Bolton had tossed his to John so that the medic could slash the tires on the vehicle they’d had to leave behind], but it was a damned sight better than the bloody butcher knives the British Army gave him.). Later on, after the Aluminum Crutch case, he received a package in the mail from Murray, all the way from Kandahar, that contained some random items. Sherlock laughed for days afterwards at John’s truly embarrassing screech when he uncovered the dead camel spider (“Sherlock, that fucking thing is NOT FUCKING FUNNY you try waking up to that FUCKING thing on your FUCKING face and tell me you would be laughing, you son of a bitch!”)( _Of course, Sherlock is not going to say a word about his intense fear of spiders. If he did indeed wake up one morning with a not-quite-a-spider of that horrific size on his face, he would probably die from the resulting panic attack and subsequent shock to his heart. He wasn’t a robot, despite people’s thoughts on the matter._ ), but the small bag of Afghan sand that now resided in the front pocket of John’s jeans made up for the minor heart attack.  
  
Sometimes (especially now) he could still feel the heat of the desert in that sand.  
  
That was a pretty long way of explaining that the doctor knew damned well what Sherlock was doing. The suits were his key, just like the teddy bear and the Ka-BAR. John smiled and fingered the bag of sand.  
  
  
  
    Breakfast was utterly fantastic.  
  
Breakfast conversation was utterly shit.  
  
Sally refused to come down, still in a snit that they would all be limited to five minute showers to conserve water and fuel. Anderson refused to talk at the table, only grumbling when John asked him to empty the beans out of the cupboard later to make room for the staggering amount of tea and coffee that Greg brought with him. Sarah (who had somehow survived the madness of the first few days) sat in silence as well. Hers was an empty silence rather than a pissy one. As a point of fact, she had yet to speak a single word since her arrival on Sunday, despite John’s goading and Sherlock’s attempts to get a rise out of her.  
  
Greg and John chattered away about the difficulty of their paneling job that they’d been working on since five a.m. (Good God, Sherlock thought, I slept through all of that noise?) and how they won’t have to listen to their blasted mobiles going off every five minutes now that modern society was breaking down around them (although, with Mycroft’s frankly frightening connections in the government at work, their mobiles still worked. Which also meant that his big brother was still among the living. For how much longer, no one knew. That bothered Sherlock more than anything else so far, far more than he wanted to admit to himself even.). They had beers in their hands, and were talking like they were at the pub. Mrs. Hudson listened in and tittered when either man used a particularly colorful word or phrase. John held the lead currently with ‘god fucking damned cunting cock blocking ass nugget (describing a man who was at the surgery three weeks ago). It got a small smile out of poor Sarah, at least.  
  
The only one whom seemed to be in a normal mood was Molly, surprisingly. She had her nose stuffed into the very large report that Mycroft had faxed over three days ago; the compilation of all of his knowledge about the outbreak added to what the Ministry of Defense and the Ministry of Health were able to gather before the government pretty much collapsed under the weight of...whatever the hell this was...Molly muttered and mouthed a piece of toast with jam while jotting notes in a small Moleskin tablet. Her hair stayed out of her face with aid from a scrunchie, making a rather messy looking pony tail. Sherlock watched as she did...science.  
  
  
  
    One week.  
  
One week since Toronto.  
  
John,Greg and Sherlock finished boarding and reinforcing the windows by tea. When they made it back up to 221 B, tea and chocolate digestives were waiting on the coffee table. Greg and John sat gratefully and drank a pot of tea to themselves, which made the fact that their landlady had made two pots very important. Mrs. Hudson made Sherlock’s favorite, of course; wuyi da hong pao tea, a rare variety of oolong that had Greg nearly orgasmic in delight. Hmm. Sherlock was not aware that Greg was a tea enjoyer like himself. Something they had in common, then. Interesting. His back was hurting again, so she also gave him some paracetamol.  
  
They sat in companionable silence for a while.  
  
Sally stomped down the staircase clutching an overnight bag. “I’m leaving.”  
  
John nearly dropped the tea he’d been frowning at. “Say again?”  
  
“You heard me.”  
  
Greg stood from the chair in front of his laptop. “You have got to be kidding me, Sally. You can’t go out there! It’s a mad-house!”  
  
“I don’t _care anymore_!” She screamed. “There hasn’t been any rioting around here. I’m going home.” She took a deep breath.  
  
The other women sat motionless on the couch, staring at the black police woman. Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, immediately coming up with ten good reasons why Sally should just _leave_ already and twenty even better reasons why she really should stay. He was about to launch into the former list (it would make the latter even better to hear, in his opinion) when John stood up. He didn’t just stand, though. It was like the air itself came to attention. His shoulders shifted back beneath the brown cardigan he wore over the green button up he put on not ten minutes ago. His hands clasped just below his lower back loosely. His face...a work of art, really, how it goes from jovial to calmly commanding in a split second.  
“No you are not.”  
  
Sally jerked from the staring contest she had been engaged in with her former boss. Wheeling, she stalked up to John and stuck her finger into his face. “You can’t keep me here, Watson.”  
  
Not even a twitch. “For your safety, yes I bloody well can.”  
  
“Use your vacant brain pan for something, Donovan!” The lists can go burn. Sherlock growled in her general direction from where he sat, curled in his armchair. “Trafalgar Square is in flames, thanks to the rioting and looting masses. Buckingham Palace has most likely been destroyed. London is in shambles, and our happy little pocket of Central London is essentially cut off from the rest of the world as a whole...at least I believe it is.” He flapped his hand impatiently. “There really is no point trying to get back to your flat; it is clear across the city and when was the last time you heard a taxi pass this building? When was the last time you heard any vehicle drive past? And what exactly would you do once you got there, hmm? You have meager supplies, no defense, no survival instincts at all, and you aren’t even half trained on a simple hand gun, let alone the larger weapons you would need to protect yourself.”  
  
“I’ve got a knife!” Sally hissed at him.  
  
“Fat lot of good that would do you,” Sherlock continued, “considering the extensive training one needs to be able to wield one with any sort of accuracy and effectiveness. By the time you would be able to get close enough to use it on one person, twenty more would have their sights on you. Open your eyes and observe. It’s only a matter of time before everything comes to our street. You are much safer here. I can’t help that you are having a difficult time adjusting to the new situation-”  
  
“Now, you listen here, you god forsaken freak-”  
  
“We have been lucky to get a week’s grace period to finish preparing, Donovan.” John’s voice stayed the same, but up until now John had been making a point to call everyone by their first names save for Mrs. Hudson, but that was out of respect for the older lady. The change to a last name got everyone’s attention. “Right now, our number one priority is to keep clear of the manic population, many of whom are murdering and raiding to get supplies that they haven’t had the chance to lay in, or simply did not prepare at all for this disaster. You are a young, pretty woman.” He sighed, then looked outside. “If you leave, I would give you two hours.”  
  
Sally cocked her head. “Two hours for what?”  
  
Sherlock wanted to slap his forehead out of sheer pity for the few brain cells the black detective had left in her skull. It must be so dull for them in there, with nothing else to interact with. It took all of his willpower to not simply stand up, walk over, and smack the stupid right out of her. _Looks like I will be doing that experiment on the black mold after all, since the willpower John told me to use to keep myself occupied with other things is now gone_. He grinned devilishly.  
  
“Two hours of survival before the cretins outside our doors attack, rape, murder, and strip your useless body of anything of importance, then toss your corpse to the dogs.” That stopped Sherlock’s grin, as well as everyone else in the room. John held up a finger. “That’s if you are lucky, and the so called ‘rabies’ virus hasn’t already spread to Britain. If that’s the case, well, I’d give you even less time.” He turned back to face Sally, and his face was one that she didn’t recognize. But then, she wasn’t at Dartmoor. None of them were, save for Sherlock. “So, Donovan. Two hours out there, or an undetermined but undoubtedly longer time in here. Your choice.”  
  
Sally simply stood in the corner near the front door. John didn’t move.  
  
“Drop that bag, sit down, and drink some tea, Sally.”  
  
“But-”  
  
“That’s an order, Detective Sergeant.”  
  
A loud crash shattered the tense atmosphere.  
  
“Sorry.” Anderson peeked his head around the corner of the hallway. “Dropped the bag of tinned beans. Where did you want them again?”  
  
Just like that, the entire flat dissolved into uncontrollable laughter, and the crisis was averted.  
Sherlock smiled.  
  
  
  
    That night, Sherlock couldn’t sleep, not for want of trying. The constant shouting and clattering outside 221 B kept driving sleep from his mind. He finally quit trying and jumped up from the couch, only to come face to face with Sally.  
  
“John was right.”  
  
“Of course he is.” _Tense change. Hmm...curious. Must look into that._  
  
“Thanks. For stopping me, you know.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged, a small movement of his left shoulder. The exchange ended. Sally moved, and the taller man slipped past her. And froze.  
  
“Where’s John?” His flatmate was certainly _not_ in the flat.  
  
“He went with Molly. She said she needed more...something or another for an test she devised.”  
  
The blood in Sherlock’s veins ran cold. He shivered. _What is wrong with me..._ “Out? They left? What happened to ‘keep clear of the cretins outside’? Where did they go? When will they be back?”  
  
“Sherlock, calm down. He’s got his mobile with him.” Greg stood in the open doorway leading to the landing. “That crazy bastard somehow got his hands on a full, if mismatched, battle kit, complete with body armor and assault rifle.” Greg gripped the police issue pump shotgun in his hands, their white knuckle grip betraying his anxiety. “They took the car. They will be fine.”  
  
  
  
    “Fucking shit, Sherlock! Careful with that needle. I happen to still be alive.”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “Apologies, John.” The second attempt at closing the deeper edge of the gouge in John’s right forearm proceeded a bit smoother. His patient huffed out a hard breath. Molly vibrated next to them on the couch, right knee barely skimming the consulting detective’s outer thigh and buttock. He could feel her tension through three layers of material.  
  
“We really didn’t expect that many. Like, I wasn’t really sure- well, I knew that John had experience, but I didn’t- know, you know? I didn’t know if he would be able to fight that many off. I mean, there were so many!”  
  
“There, there, sweetie, why don’t we go get some nice hot tea and some biscuits into you, wouldn’t that be good?”  
  
Molly nodded so hard Sherlock was afraid her head would come flying off. “Yes. Yes, that would be- I mean, could you? Could we? Oh, wow...”  
  
“Of course, dear. Let’s go to the kitchen.” Mrs. Hudson patted the pathologist’s hand, much as you would a small child who’s had a fright. “There you go. Let the boys patch themselves up. They need some time to themselves, don’t you think?”  
  
“Oh God.” John groaned. Sherlock only chuckled. As soon as the women were out of earshot, the doctor sighed. “Okay, Sherlock, go ahead.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“Make your deductions. I know you; you are positively gagging to figure out how we made in through that hellish mob.”  
  
Sherlock stared directly at John’s face. The man grinned like a madman. Sherlock smiled.  
  
“The attack didn’t happen right away. Obvious. You would have had your arm treated at the hospital if it had. Molly took side roads to St. Bart’s; it would have been child’s play to avoid the main groups of idiots out there. You left well before the mob currently occupying Baker Street arrived, so you would have reached the hospital a little before midnight. Molly gathered what she needed from her office, where she was accosted by a male...nurse. Could have been a resident doctor, but the man was young, very young. Therefore nurse. You attacked the man, subduing him with the torch using your stronger right arm to ensure he would stay down so you two could escape. I’m not exactly sure why he stopped her. Could be what she had, could be for pleasure. Doesn’t matter. No further incidents until you got to Marylebone. There, you encountered the mob. This is where your self-preservation and protection instincts kicked in. There really was no other way of doing it. You waited until the last moment, then opened fire, keeping the fire selector on single shot to ensure accuracy and to conserve ammunition. You killed individuals as Molly used her car as a tool to move people out of the way. It was slow going. When you got half way to Baker Street, you most likely spied suspicious individuals out in the crowd, perhaps people moving stiffly or people who were sickly, with symptoms of the virus listed in the report that you perused after Molly got through taking her notations. Symptoms that you could pick out even at a distance, but these people were rather close, weren’t they? No matter. You instantly took action with the plan that you had laid out in your head before you two left the safety of the flat.”  
  
“What did I do-yee _OUCH_!”  
  
“I told you that we could use the lidocaine injections in the medical kit-”  
  
“Nope. Not a serious wound, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “I can see muscle, John.”  
  
“It’s not bone, it’s not worth the effort. Continue.”  
  
“Fine. You rigged the petrol tank on the car to catch flame and explode due to built-up gasses within.”  
  
“Simple enough. Giant Molotov cocktail, most cars are.”  
  
The younger man chuckled. “After the resulting explosion- which, by the way, is what alerted Greg and I to your plight, you _did_ have a phone with you, correct?-  that took out a good chunk of the crowd, you shielded Molly the best you could and waded through the mass of people to get to this flat. In that chaotic time, you acquired this wound. It’s obviously from a knife of some kind. The edges are very clean, so not a serrated one. Possibly a paring knife or scalpel? Rather deep, so not a passing blow. The man- definitely a man, the wound tells me that- attacked you directly, then. You fought back and...killed him. Rather gruesomely, judging by the state of your button down.” Sherlock took a deep breath.  
  
“Is that all, buddy?” John’s eyes glinted like the edge of a knife. Sherlock got the feeling that John had actually enjoyed the fight to get back to the flat. _Is this what Afghanistan was like? Is this what he misses so much?_  
  
“I’m rather...upset.”  
  
“You are.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John sighed. “With me.”  
  
“Yes, John, with you.”  
  
“There’s a turn-a-round.”  
  
“John, I’m serious.”  
  
“I know. So am I. Usually, you’re the one taking stupid ass risks. Now it’s my turn.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Sorry?” The doctor looked up at his friend.  
  
“No, John. We don’t take turns doing stupid things. We do them together.”  
  
“You were sleeping like a baby, though. I didn’t want to disturb you.”  
  
“I don’t care. Next time, I’m coming with you. No arguments.”  
  
“Of course.” John smirked, and looked at Sherlock from beneath his sandy eyebrows. “I’d be lost without my detective.”  
  
  
  
    Finally, at around 04:00, sleep came to Sherlock. He lay quietly, listening to his best friend’s slumbering breaths in the dark. He dropped his left hand down and touched John’s rib cage. It moved rhythmically beneath the doctor’s sleep jumper. Marveling at the heat of his sleeping friend, Sherlock lightly stroked the parts he could reach from his position on the couch. John snuffled sleepily and groaned, then moved into the feather light touch.  
Sherlock closed his eyes and dreamed of chaos.


	3. The Beginning of Things to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The humans begin to disappear...and the zombies show up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this one begs a sort of...disclaimer. I have never served in the military. All specs on guns I gleaned from Wikipedia.  
> There is a scene that John describes (you will know it when you see it) in Afghanistan. I do not know if that _ever truly happened_. **EVER.** So please, please, PLEASE do not attempt to call me out on it. It is an unfortunate thing that could have feasibly happened in the heat of battle, but I don't think it did. This is a work of fiction. Remember this.

    An insistent hand at his shoulder woke John quickly. He’d been practicing ‘combat sleep’ since the whole shit storm began. He sat up immediately. “What is it?”  
  
Greg shrugged. “John. It’s quiet out there. The mob’s gone.”  
  
John glanced at his wristwatch. 06:33. Thursday. Barely more than a week for everything to go to hell. “Shit.” He pushed off the floor and scrubbed his left hand through his sandy hair. “Alright. I’ve talked to you guys about this. We are now officially on war footing. Wake the others.” He turned to find Sherlock looking at him. The detective was barely awake. His grey eyes resembled an owl’s, all bright and wide.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Sherlock. Here we go.”  
  
The younger man took a deep breath and sighed shakily. “This is really happening, then. Not a dream.”  
  
As the kitchen light clicked on, John shook his head. “Not a dream, Sherlock. Sorry.”  
  
“Alright.” Sherlock rubbed at his face, obviously trying to wake up. “I will be with you shortly. Have tea ready.”  
  
John chuckled. “Yeah.”  
  
  
  
  
    Once everyone gathered in the kitchen, John took a quick roster.  
  
“Sally.”  
  
“Yeah.” Her sleep mussed hair made her look like a clown.  
  
“Anderson. Tim.”  
  
“I’m here. Don’t really want to be. Is thi-”  
  
“Greg.”  
  
“Here, John.”  
  
“Sarah?”  
  
The petite blonde doctor nodded. John accepted that.  
  
“Mrs. Hudson?”  
  
“John, dear. You can call me Martha.”  
  
John paused. “Okay. Martha.”  
  
“I’m here, sweetie.”  
  
“Molly?”  
  
“Awake. Brain is not quite there yet. Give me a couple of cups.”  
  
John smiled.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
The man swept past him, fully dressed and texting. “Mycroft called. He said to be aware that current estimates put the percentage of London in the grips of the virus at forty-six percent and rising steadily.”  
  
John nodded once. Good to go, then. He spread a map on the table, avoiding cups of coffee and tea with the ease of a man accustomed to these sorts of meetings. Briefings. Whatever.  
  
“Listen up, everyone. I am going to lay so ground rules. These are for your safety, therefore they are set in stone, full stop. I will brook no argument during this meeting, but afterwards you can voice your concerns.” He looked at everyone in turn. “You read me?” Everyone nodded, even Sherlock.  
  
“Alright, Rule number one: do not, under any circumstances, leave this flat alone. Ever. Rule number two: Searching for loved ones is unfortunately out of the question at this point. Any family members you did not send away, and friends you may have out there...we have to consider them lost.” A sudden intake of breath from Greg. “I’m sorry.” The D.I. waved his hand in acknowledgment. “As you have all heard from Sherlock, the virus is spreading fast. We expected this. Which brings me to the next rule.” John took a breath. “From this moment on, every single unprotected person outside this flat is a potential threat. We will treat them accordingly. We no longer have the luxury of choice. We only have enough supplies in this flat for us. Eight people, and two animals. No more. We can not take any survivors in. Anyone caught ‘in the wire’, as it were, will be dealt with. Anyone attempting to break in or to attack one of us will be shot on sight.”  
  
Sally sputtered. John glared at her. “I mean it. This is a new battle we are fighting here, Sally. I, for one, do not want to be turned into one of these things.” He returned his attention to the table at large. “We will also start carrying weapons at all times. I have enough handguns for everyone except Mrs. - sorry, Martha. Greg?”  
  
The older man had tear tracks down his face. “Sorry.”  
  
“No. Can you get the black duffle bag from Sherlock’s lab?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Greg left the kitchen and John continued.  
  
“Once I assign these guns to you, they do not leave your side. You will sleep with them, eat with them, and if I catch someone leaving the flat without their hand gun, I will ban them from leaving entirely. These guns are your lifeline. They will save your lives. I have holsters for all of them. I will teach you how to use the gun, and the holster.” Greg returned with the the bag and hefted it onto the table. John extracted a gun roll from the main compartment. “These are Sig Sauer P226s and Browning Hi-Powers. Both guns fire 9mm Parabellum rounds.” The ex-military man picked up the Browning. “This is the Hi-Power. It is a single action semi-automatic. You have to cock the hammer to fire the first round. It has a safety switch here. It has a thirteen round magazine, which you drop by pressing this.” As he rattled off statistics, John field stripped the gun in his hand slowly, showing each part and placing it aside. “I will show you how to strip the gun for cleaning. I know this weapon very intimately. I will be giving them to Sherlock, Greg, and Tim; since they have larger hands, they won’t have to deal with the bite as much.” He reassembled the Browning at speed, then picked up the other gun. “This is the P226 Elite. She’s a bit sexier, I think.  The ones I found all have 15 round magazines. This gun is a double action with no safety catch, so no buttons to muck around with. All you have to do is pull the trigger to fire it. It does have a de-cocking lever here so you can safely disengage the hammer. I will show you all of this later today.” He field-stripped this one as well, and then reassembled it even faster. “These I will give to Sally, Molly, and Sarah.”  
  
“You will be keeping the ones you stripped, won’t you?” Sherlock had methodically stripped John’s personal Browning and was inspecting the firing pin.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Anderson cocked his head and snorted. “That’s it? No big guns?”  
  
John snorted. “There is no way in hell I’m letting you near either of the rifles. You’re liable to shoot your big toe off. The only ones who will be touching the ‘big guns’ as you so eloquently put it, will be Greg and I.”  
  
“Why not Freak?” Sally poked at her biscuit.  
  
“Not until I teach him how to use one.”  
  
Sherlock glared across the top of his mobile at the woman. “Obviously.”  
  
“Alright, everyone, shut it.”  
  
Sherlock scowled back down at his phone, and Sally continued to play with her food.  
  
“Anyway. I want to go through this report with all of you.” Molly handed him the stack of papers. “I want to make sure that you all know how to identify...aw, fuck it, identify a zombie from a distance as well as close up. Though you really don’t want to see one close up. Zombie. Zombies. That’s what we are dealing with. Crazed humans and zombies. Got it?”  
  
A chorus of affirmatives rose from around the table.  
  
“God, I can’t believe this is happening.”  
  
Sherlock looked at Anderson. “It is.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Okay, guys.” John nodded his head. “Here we go, head first into the rabbit hole...”  
  
  
  
    Surprisingly, no one had any arguments for John after the meeting. They were all pretty numb, honestly. Zombies. He’d actually said the name. Zombies.  
  
The silence outside was much more ominous than anything beforehand, save for Toronto.  
  
Damned Canadians.  
  
Greg sat on the staircase leading up to the flat, staring at the wall. The women, except for Molly, had gone back to Mrs. Hudson’s to try for more sleep. Tim went back upstairs. There would be no more sleep for him today, though. He glanced at his watch. 08:46. God damn and sod it. He blinked back tears and held his Browning in a near death grip. In the flat the former D.I. could hear Sherlock and Molly working on...well, whatever Big Brother was tasking them with. Saving the world, most likely.  
  
God, sometimes he almost envied Sherlock, being able to set his emotions aside as if they didn’t fucking matter. Greg heaved out a sigh. Maybe they don’t. Was he better off forgetting about Janice? Mindy? Tears fell anew from his eyes, trailing down his stubbled cheeks. He refused to give in to the sobs that threatened to render him useless. His vision swam nonetheless.  
Damn it.  
  
“Greg?”  
  
It was John on the landing. Calm, stoic John. John, who looked so fucking _alive_ right now, in his element. Must be nice.  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine.”  
  
The ex-soldier plopped down two steps above the grieving ( _grieving? was he grieving? really_?) man. “No you’re not. Who’d you leave behind?”  
  
Greg shook his head, displacing his salt and pepper hair. John persisted.  
  
“You have to talk, Greg. Get it out before it eats you alive.”  
  
“Janice.” Greg nearly barked the name. “She didn’t believe me when I told her what was going on. She called me a ‘fear monger’ and accused me of trying to scare Mindy.” Greg dropped his head into his hands, rapping his temple on the Hi-Power. The pain felt sort of good. “She wouldn’t listen to me, John. It’s not my fault, I know, but Jesus. Something you said triggered a guilt trip from Hell. Why should I even care? Why should I give a shit? The woman hates me, she even got Mindy to hate me. For fuck’s sake, John, the girl’s twelve! Janice has it in Mindy’s head that _I was the one cheating_!” Greg slammed the hand not currently occupied by the gun into the staircase. “Why can’t I just slough off this feeling like Sherlock seems to be able to do?”  
  
Greg could tell when John leaned back into the riser of the step above him. The old stairs creaked under his shifting weight.  
  
“I left Harry. She was too drunk to listen, and she’d only be a liability. I didn’t even warn her.”  
  
John said it so calmly that the policeman nearly gave himself whiplash turning to stare at John. The look that John had on his face was not one he was expecting.  
  
Guilt lived in his eyes as well.  
  
Damn, to be able to make that kind of decision, to decide who is a liability, who lives and who dies...and your own family...  
  
“Greg. In Afghanistan, I have had to choose who to save. Combat triage worked like this: You are the only medic on the ground until you get support from the MERT team. Your squad just got the shit blown out of them by an IED. You have three wounded men, and you are under fire. One man has an open chest wound, perforated lung and a missing arm. Man number two is missing a leg, but the wound was cauterized by the super-heated piece of metal that took the leg, and the man is stable, even if he is in shock. Man number three has a broken back, a crushed skull, and massive internal injuries. You know all three. The choice: who do you save? Who has the best chance of survival? Forget the second man, he’s going to be fine. You need to figure it out fast; the broken man or the OCW? Both men could recover from their injuries, but only one _would._ You can’t try to keep both alive, or you will lose both. Choose one.”  
  
“John, I couldn’t-”  
  
“I did. All while trying not to get my arse shot off. Not easy at all.”  
  
“So you let one die?”  
  
John sighed. “No. I gave the skull injury - Samson - a lethal dose of morphine.”  
  
Greg huffed out a dry humorless bark. So he killed the man, a mercy killing. Fuck.“Sorry.”  
  
“I’m not. I was able to save two out of three. I did what I could do under the circumstances, and the circumstances blew donkey dong. That story, thankfully, is not common. Thank God for modern medicine and helicopters with guns on them. But when you are only one man, you can’t save them all.”  
  
Greg nodded, finally understanding what John was doing.  
  
“You saved the two you were closest to at the time. That’s a better tally than me or Sherlock, and we are supposed to be the smart ones.” John rubbed his face. “Sherlock said he would watch the door. Come up to the roof with me and get some mileage in on that gun. I’ve got a couple toys to play with.”  
  
Sherlock chose that moment to come through the doorway from where he had been listening, followed by Toby and little Gladstone. He slid the magazine home in the butt of the gun in his hand, jacked the slide to chamber a round, cocked the hammer, and slipped the safety selector on. “Weapon hot and locked, John.”  
  
John’s eyebrows rose at the use of the terminology. “Acknowledged. You gonna hold down the fort here, then?”  
  
“That is what I plan on doing. I will text if we get any disturbances down here.”  
  
“Okay. See you later. Let the girls know that we will be shooting. I expect we will have targets soon.”  
  
“Very well. Have fun, John.”  
  
  
  
    “Just be careful for your head here, Greg.”  
  
The older man barely made it through the window to the fire escape. “Jesus, how the hell would you guys get out in case of an actual fire?”  
  
John stood on the top landing, despite being weighted down by two gun bags and an ammunition container.  
  
“Damn you, Watson! I’m not twenty anymore!”  
  
John grinned at Greg’s mock angry voice. “Neither am I. Hurry up, old man!”  
  
“You are still nearly ten years younger than I am.” Lestrade finally made it to the top of the rickety metal contraption as John hopped over the low lip of the rooftop to land on the pea gravel that covered the surface. He reached over to assist his friend over.  
  
“Well, this isn’t too bad. It’s actually sort of nice up here.” Greg looked around, turning a full circle to encompass what used to be his city. The hell with it, it still was. John grunted.  
  
“If it was a different war, I’d be scanning for sniper positions.” He suddenly smiled. “Don’t have to worry about that now, do we?”  
  
Greg paused and listened. Maybe it wasn’t his city anymore. “I don’t really know if I should feel this good. I mean, it’s so quiet. I’m not used to being able to hear the river from here, you know? It is disconcerting, almost feels like I have vertigo right now.”  
  
“Just think. In a couple of years, the smog will be gone. The power will be gone too, so you’ll be able to see the stars.”  
Greg smiled. “Yeah.”  
  
John finished setting out their position. He’d even brought water up with him. How thoughtful. The former D.I. rubbed the back of his neck. “You know, I’ve only had the basic training on the assault rifle. Never got my hands on a sniper rifle before.”  
  
John nodded as he pulled out the L85A2 rifle from its bag. “No problem, Greg. I’ll zero her in, then let you muck around with her. I’m assuming you are at least marginally familiar with the Hi-Power, correct?”  
  
“Yeah.” Greg knelt down beside John, who adopted a firing position. He knelt down on his right knee, sat back on that heel, and extended his left leg slightly for stability. He bent down and snagged a loaded magazine from the ammunition box, slapped it against the receiver of the rifle to prime the load, then shoved it home into the port. He chambered a round, then turned to Greg.  
  
“Weapon hot.”  
  
Greg nodded.  
  
The first snap of the report made the older man jerk in surprise. John slipped the selector forward and fired again, this time in a three round burst. He made a couple adjustments to the scope that Greg didn’t quite understand anymore, then fired again. His head jerked once in satisfaction, then flicked the safety on and handed the rifle to Greg. “She’s ready to go.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
John busied himself with unpacking his other ‘toy’.  
  
“You are enjoying this, aren’t you.”  
  
The doctor sat back on his haunches and glanced up at Greg. “How do you mean?”  
  
Greg waved his free hand (the one that wasn’t holding a deadly weapon). “Not the ‘imminent disaster of epic proportions’ part, or the ‘leaving your family and friends to fend for themselves because you aren’t God’ part. This part. The chance to be in action again, the chance to be in command. You are _loving this!_ ” For some reason, the fact that John was literally in his element didn’t bother him so much as... “You weren’t an Army doctor, were you?”  
  
John chuckled softly. He finished assembling the frighteningly huge L118A1 sniper rifle (where in the flaming blue hell did he get these things? Oh, Mycroft. Right.) and began setting it up.  
  
“How long do you think I spent in the military, Greg?”  
  
“Sherlock said two years.”  
  
“ _Sherlock_ said I spent two years in the Royal Army Medical Corps as a medical officer and combat surgeon. I also served on MERT teams. I was on one when I was shot.” John pulled out his phone and looked at it, nodded to himself, and poked at the keys to send a text back.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“How long do you think I spent in the _military_ , Greg?”  
  
D.I. Lestrade suddenly understood. John looked up from another text expectantly.  
  
“Obviously more than two years.”  
  
John nodded. “Very good. I served in the British Army for eight years before joining up with the R.A.M.C.” He smiled. “I was a soldier with a medical degree. Then I was invalidated to a place with nothing.” His smile grew in wattage. “Fuck yeah, I’m enjoying this!”  
  
  
  
    Three hours later, the pair spotted their first (Sherlock had been correct last night. This was actually John’s fifth) zombie. The man was alone. Even high up on the roof of the flat-share, John could see the damage the virus caused. The zombie dragged his mangled and broken leg behind him as he somehow maintained forward momentum. John helped Greg set up for the shot.  
  
“Now, remember your training. It’s like riding a bicycle. Snug the stock up against your shoulder - no gap, mind - and solid through the side and arm. Keep it strong. Hold her steady. Deep breath, then shallow breaths until you feel comfortable with the shot. Breathe in, half out-”  
  
CRACK.  
  
The zombie dropped, most of its brain splattered behind it on the wall.  
  
“Absolutely brilliant, Greg, we’ll make a sniper out of you yet.”  
  
  



	4. The Lion and the Hyena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Large guns, zombies, and Anderson - how can this day get any better?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not have a clue what a sniper rifle sounds like. Well, I do...but to translate the sound into words... *shrugs*
> 
> If you haven't noticed by now, I'm flying blind here. Anything sounds impossible or just really dumb? Let me know. Also, and I've forgotten to mention this.... This is not Brit-picked or beta'd. Any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. Therefore the obvious stands.

       Gladstone began to whine after fifteen minutes of sitting out on the stairs. This, apparently, was highly annoying to Tobias, who kept growling in Sherlock’s ear from where he perched on the man’s shoulder. This, apparently, was highly annoying to Sherlock, who growled right back at the tabby and poked Gladstone in the side with his foot. “Oh, by the love of all that is holy and good in this world, would you please keep the whining down? Decide whether you want to be inside the flat or out of it, young man, or I will be forced to take drastic measures. I do have this experiment with arsenic that I have been meaning to try -”  
  
CRACK!  
  
“Holy -”  
  
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!  
  
Mrs. Hudson opened her door. “Oh dear, he could have mentioned that it was going to be-”  
  
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!  
  
Now everyone came out on the landing, or stood in the hallway. Anderson was already grumbling about the noise. “How am I supposed to get any sleep with that infernal racket going on?”  
  
“Oh, shut up, Anderson.”  
  
Sarah approached Sherlock’s perch on the stair. Wordlessly, she climbed up and sat next to him and shivered. And kept shivering. Sherlock felt the warmth coming off her, so she wasn’t cold.  
  
Hmm. Shock. Understandable, under the circumstances. He dislodged Tobias from his perch, took his great-coat off and slipped it over the doctor’s shoulders, then shot a quick text to John.

  


  
_Are you having fun up on the roof, John? - SH_  
  
Ping.  
\-------------------------------------------------  
Text from John Watson (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received 0736 UST  
 _Loads. You?_  
\-------------------------------------------------

  
 _I gave my coat to Sarah. She’s shivering, but it isn’t cold. Would you say that it’s shock? - SH_  
  
Ping.  
\-------------------------------------------------  
Text from John Watson (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received 0736 UST  
 _Oh, that would definitely be a symptom. Has she spoken to you?_  
\-------------------------------------------------

  
 _Not yet. Those shots were rather loud. I did warn them, but I wasn’t anticipating the volume. - SH_  
  
Ping.  
\-------------------------------------------------  
Text from John Watson (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received 0737 UST  
 _Oops. Sorry bout that. Might want to let everyone know that I didn’t bother to get a suppressor for this thing._  
\-------------------------------------------------

  
 _Obviously. - SH_  
  
Ping.  
\-------------------------------------------------  
Text from John Watson (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received 0737 UST  
 _No, that was the assault rifle. Got the L118A1 out now. No suppressor. Gonna be loud as hell._  
\-------------------------------------------------

  
 _Oh. I’ll let them know. Really? Louder than the other one? - SH_  
  
Ping.  
\-------------------------------------------------  
Text from John Watson (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received 0738 UST  
 _Much._  
\-------------------------------------------------

  
 _Oh. Alright then. - SH_  
  
Sherlock turned to the crowd that had gathered just behind his position in the hallway. “John just finished sighting in the assault rifle. He’s moving on to the sniper rifle. It’s going to be much louder.”  
  
Molly smiled nervously. “Cool.”  
  
Sally and Anderson had the same expression of horrified curiosity.  
  
Mrs. Hudson tittered. “God save us from the boys and their toys!”  
  
Sarah huddled in the great coat.  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
“ _Jesus Christ!_ ” Sherlock quickly grabbed the little English Bulldog before he could tear off to places unknown. Tobias levitated off the floor and phased out of existence.  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
Sarah attempted to melt into Sherlock’s right side. The grey tabby re-materialized in Molly’s embrace.     
  
Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He picked it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen.  
  
  
  
\--------------------------------------------------  
Text from John Watson (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received 0750 UST  
 _Okay. Rifle is zeroed. God damn, but this bitch is beautiful! I want another one for my birthday. Tell Mycroft. And fuck the suppressor. Might need ear-plugs, though._  
\--------------------------------------------------

  
Sherlock began to giggle, garnering disbelieving stares from almost everyone. The giggles quickly dissolved into hysterical laughter when Molly and Mrs. Hudson said, “That was fantastic!” at the same time.

  
  
    Three hours went by, and Sherlock still sat on the stairs, Sarah by his side. She’d finally stopped shaking, which was a good sign. He’d much rather have _this_ friend of John’s coherent ( _well, if she ever decided to speak again, that is_ ) and alive than any of the other...girls John saw on a regular basis. Damn John and his damned sex drive!  
  
“Sarah, would you mind getting me tea?”  
  
She raised her head, gave him a small smile, and stood.  
  
“Thank you, Sarah.”  
  
She disappeared, leaving the detective contemplate the reason he was all of sudden being nice to her.  
  
Gladstone growled deep in his little chest, sounding like a coffee percolator. Sherlock sighed heavily, then took another breath to yell at the pup -  
  
CRACK!  
  
Sherlock’s head popped up. That one sounded different, a separate sound at the very end of the report, it almost sounded like -  
  
“Oh my God, he actually killed that poor sod!” Anderson’s voice drifted down from the flat.  
  
Sherlock shot up the stairs, Gladstone on his heels.  
  
Anderson and Molly stood at the window near the entrance, and Sarah knelt on Sherlock’s chair in front of the far one. He went to her side and looked down. Sure enough, a man lay on the sidewalk across the street from the front door, missing half his head. At this distance it was hard to tell - no, there it is. The horribly mangled leg, with blackened blood and what looked like gangrenous tissue covering what skin the detective could see. Bits of diseased brain, barely big enough to see from here... Zombie.  
  
An actual zombie.  
  
Sherlock glanced down to find his hands trembling. He clenched them hard. Sarah breathed near him, still draped in his coat. He almost asked for it back.  
  
A real zombie.  
  
“We need samples, Sherlock.” His head snapped to the right, where Molly had materialized at his shoulder. She sounded nervous, but hidden in that nervousness was a hunger, a desire to learn that which is unknown, that dissolved the frisson of fear ( _fear? Is it fear? Why am I afraid?_ ) that was simmering in the pit of his stomach. He smirked at her.  
  
“Oh, God yes.”  
  
He immediately went for his coat, but Anderson gripped his arm. Sherlock froze.  
  
“Hold on, Freak. Where do you think you’re going?”  
  
Sherlock huffed. Really? “Outside, obviously. Molly’s coming with me. We need samples.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, do you remember what John said this morning, or did you delete that too?”  
  
Oh, God. _Are we really doing this? NOW?_ “Of course I remember, you idiot. John will recognize me.”  
  
“He just killed someone!”  
  
Sherlock snagged Anderson’s shirt lapels and shook him a bit, just enough to get the idiot’s attention. “John’s killed a lot of people, you utter waste of carbon and oxygen! He was a soldier in a war. That’s what people do in war. That doesn’t mean he would kill a friend. Now let go of me.”  
  
“What if you turned into one of those...things? He’d shoot you the first chance he got.”  
  
“Well, of course. I’d want him to. But we don’t know what this virus is, nor what it entails. Let. _Go_.”  
  
“Can’t you see, Freak? He’s off his rocker! He’s cracked.” Anderson tightened his grip, to the point of bruising. “What did you honestly think would happen to a man with post traumatic stress disorder in a situation like this? He’s not okay, and he’s got a gun. A big gun. Hell, he probably thinks that he’s in Iraq, or wherever the hell he served, and he’ll think that you are some sort of terrorist with your dark hair and your big coat and -”  
  
Sherlock punched him.  
  
The women stared as Anderson hit the wall beneath the steer head. Sherlock loomed over the forensics expert, who now bled freely from a rapidly swelling split lip and red nose.  
  
“You shut up this instant. You don’t know John. You never have. I live with this man every day, and have for a long time now, long enough to know that he. Is not. Crazy.” He paused. “Well, alright. He’s a lunatic. But a good one. Not the kind that you are painting him to be, you disgusting excuse for humanity.” He grabbed Anderson again. “If you ever speak ill of him again, I will have no choice but to murder you. I will invent a new, interesting way of disposing your body. I will stomp on your grave and make my violin sing of your demise.”  
  
Molly finished sending a text.

  
  
    “Holy hell, that was great!” Greg felt a grin forming on his face. John smirked at him.  
  
“See? Just like riding a bike.”  
  
Greg nodded. “Yeah, pretty much. Do you see any others?” The D.I. shifted his position a bit to relieve a cramp in his leg and took a swig from his water bottle.  
  
“Nope. That can’t be it, really, it can’t.”  
  
“I know. Makes you wonder, huh?” Greg looked at John. “Say, how’s your arm?”  
  
The doctor shrugged. “Fine. Took some paracetamol earlier, doesn’t really hurt that much.”  
  
“You know, we should get back in there and make sure they aren’t killing each other.”  
  
“That sounds like a good idea-” John’s phone warbled. Text alert. He grabbed it and looked at the display.  Greg started removing the magazine from the gun when John groaned and shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Too late. Sherlock’s got Anderson backed against the wall.”  
  
  
  
    They made it back down to 221B in record time. It only took a moment for the men to assess the situation, then they simply stood in the doorway, listening to Sherlock’s furious rant.  
  
“...and I will find a very small garbage skip. Maybe just a bin. Yes, a bin. That’s where I would toss your large intestine. Your testicles would go into the microwave - “  
  
John shifted against the jamb. “Hell, no, they are certainly not going in the microwave, Sherlock!”  
  
Sherlock looked up. He had a rather delighted look on his face that twisted his lips into a silly moue. “John! Molly and I would like to go out and gather samples for our experiments.”  
  
“Let’s wait and see if there are any more coming around. I don’t want you going out there just yet.”  
  
Greg stepped over to his partner as Sally and Mrs. Hudson walked into the flat. “So what the hell just happened, Anderson?”  
  
The man sputtered and squawked, “Sherlock HIT me!”  
  
Sally couldn’t help but snicker softly behind her hand.  
  
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “He deserved it.”  
  
“I was just sayin-”  
  
“ _You_ were just saying that John is going insane.”  
  
John paused. “Say that again?”  
  
Sherlock straightened. “I said that Anderson was saying that you are going insane. Then I punched him. He deserved it.”  
  
Greg shook his head. “I’d say. John’s fine, Anderson. Stop being a dick to them for once.”  
  
“But it’s obvious...”  
  
“What’s obvious, Anderson?” John walked over to Sarah, who stood next to Molly, and rubbed her back. “That I have tactical training and I’m putting it to use in a situation that warrants it? That I have command experience? What about any of that points to insanity?” He spoke in a jovial tone, almost like he was...enjoying this? Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked up. No, more as if he really didn‘t give a fig what anyone thought. _Ah. The officer in him._  
  
“All that crap you said this morning -”  
  
“Oh, shut up, Anderson!” Greg shook his head, exasperated.  
  
“No, it’s fine.” John waved a hand in the older man’s direction without taking his eyes off Anderson and smirked. “What about this morning?”  
  
“You said we were fighting a ‘new battle’, Watson. This isn’t a battleground, it’s a city. It’s London!”  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to shoot Anderson down, but John held up his hand. “No, Sherlock. You probably exhausted your vocabulary while Greg and I were on the roof. Let me handle this.” His eyes sharpened as he looked at Anderson while Sherlock sputtered indignantly and flapped his hands ("John, I have not 'exhausted my vocabulary' on that dust particle! I have multiple languages at my disposal - you are ignoring me, John, don't ignore me!"). “It hasn’t hit you yet, has it? This isn’t your London anymore. The people who were able to leave are gone. The people who didn’t pay attention to what was going on are dead. Those of us who aren’t dead yet and are still in populated areas will be dead soon. The only thing we can do is fight. This is a battleground now. I am going to do everything within my power to keep you all alive. If that means that you think I’m nuts, Anderson, then I’ll take it, if it means that you will listen to me and stay _alive_.”  
  
John nodded, signifying the end of his speech. Sherlock almost hugged his flatmate. Anderson looked defeated.  
  
“Now, Anderson, go to the kitchen and find the first aid kit, then meet me in the bathroom so I can patch you up.”

  
  
    After about ten minutes, everyone calmed down. Seeing Sherlock snap like that seemed to bother them more than Anderson’s or John’s words. Mrs. Hudson floated around, making sure everyone had tea and biscuits at their sides, and John made sure they all had their guns. Sally and Molly sat at the table and messed around on John’s laptop. Sherlock had long since disappeared into his room, probably to set up the equipment necessary for the experiments they were talking about. Greg went back up on the roof, saying that he was going to be a lookout for the day.  
  
Things were shaping up rather well.  
  
John sat down next to Sarah, who snuggled into his side, still wearing Sherlock’s coat.  
  
“Hey, love. Are you okay?”  
  
She shook her head.  
  
“Want to talk about it?”  
  
She shook her head.  
  
“Are you going to talk at all?”  
  
She looked up at him. “I’ve got nothing to say.”  
  
“Ah! She is able to speak!” Sherlock bounded over to where they sat. “I’ll stay with her. You go take care of the idiot.” He plopped down dramatically next to Sarah and shooed him off the couch. “Go, go do your doctorly stuff. She will be fine with me.”  
  
John blinked. “Okay.” He got up and walked to the bathroom. “Huh.” He saw Anderson huddled on the toilet seat. “Looks like you can actually listen. That’s something.”  
  
“You’re a jerk, Watson.”  
  
“And you are a giant bag of dicks, but you don’t hear me complaining. Now sit closer to the light, I can’t see what I am doing.”  
  
John began cleaning the dried blood from Anderson’s nose. “So Sherlock punched you.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Did you touch him?”  
  
“All I did was grab his arm to stop him from going outside...”  
  
John shook his head. “He doesn’t like to be touched. You’ve known him longer than I have, you should have at least noticed that.”  
  
“I was just-”  
  
“You weren’t ‘just’ anything, Anderson. Sherlock does not like to be touched. Full stop. Don’t do it again.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
John prodded Anderson’s split lip. “Hmm, doesn’t seem that bad. Put an ice cube on it. There’s a few in the fridge freezer.” He patted the man on the shoulder. “If you ever touch Sherlock again, I will end you.” Anderson stared at the ex-Army man. “Yep. You heard me. Figure out why you two hate each other, and fix it. We are all living together now, and I don’t need dissent in the ranks. Work it out, or I will do it for you. And you won’t like it.”  
  
Anderson nodded.  
  
“And let me tell you another thing, Tim Anderson. I do not appreciate being psycho-analyzed, especially since the person I was paying to do it actually went to school for it and still can’t figure me out. I do not appreciate people assuming I am dangerous just because I have a gun. And I really hate when someone assumes that I’m going to shoot my flatmate because he looks entirely not quite like a freakishly tall Afghani man who apparently has been living underground his entire life and gets hair gel shipped to him through Amazon. Stop being so _dull_ , already.” He flipped the box of supplies shut. “Go out there and apologize to Sherlock.”  
  
“But I-”  
  
“Now, Anderson.”  
  
“Fine. But he’s still a freak.”  
  
“And I hope he stays that way. Scram.”

  
  
     John didn’t want to talk to Sherlock yet about what happened, but he felt he had to, if only to lay aside some fears that he was having. He’s sure Sherlock is in shock. But he’s normal - well, as normal as a Holmes could be, he supposed. Hmm. Maybe he wasn’t getting the whole picture. “Hey, Sherlock? D’you mind coming in here and helping me clean up a bit?”  
  
The detective materialized in the doorway. “Yes, John? I was busy with Sarah. Did you know that she had to kill a patient at the surgery when the man went insane because of the madness that has been happening? Stuck a needle full of potassium chloride in his neck. Dead. That’s what her issue is. Here I thought it was something silly like not having a job anymore, not having to do anything other than survive. Nope!” He chirped cheerily. “She had to kill someone. He was going to kill her, and she did it. She’d been waiting for the right time to talk to you, but I got it out of her. Well, Greg and I. Actually, Greg. Yes.” He grinned.  
  
“Okay. Right.” John cleared his throat. “Fine, good. Got her to talk, then, yeah? That’s good. Really good.”  
  
“Something wrong, John?”  
  
“How are you holding up?”  
  
Sherlock paused. His face warred with itself, trying to find an expression that would work in this situation, and settled for indignant confusion. “I’m fine.”  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“John.”  
  
“You punched Anderson. Actually _punched_ him. You’ve never bothered with him before.”  
  
“He was accusing you of things, and he physically held me back. I resented that.”  
  
“You are trying to draw Sarah out. You couldn’t be bothered to even talk to her before.”  
  
“She came to me for comfort while you were out playing around with guns.”  
  
“What?” John dropped the kit on the sink. Sherlock winced.  
  
“No, sorry. Not like that. She sat next to me. She doesn’t know Sally or Mrs. Hudson, nor anyon-”  
  
“And that! Right there. You just apologized. Why? You -”  
  
Sherlock flapped his hand. “Wouldn’t have bothered to do so before, blah blah blah, yes John, I get the point.” He took a breath. “I would like to say that this isn’t bothering me, that I’m excited to experiment and discover new things. I am. Both. So.”  
  
“So.”  
  
“Leave me alone about it.”  
  
“Right. Got it. Okay, I just wanted to say something. I’ll go talk to Sarah.”  
  
“Have sex with her, John.”  
  
John gaped.  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
John continued to gape.  
  
“What?”  
  
The doctor’s brow went up.  
  
“ _What_.”  
  
More gaping.  
  
“What have I said, John? You are already shagging the woman. It would make her more pliable and willing to speak if both of you are relaxed. Sexual intercourse releases -”  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock. Jesus. Just. No. Shut _up_. Fine, you are fine, it’s fine, _fine_.”


	5. The Little Things We Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stories, zombies, and Sherlock gets his hands on a sniper rifle. Just another night at 221B during the Apocalypse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Potassium chloride kills. It's painful. That's all I know. Why would a clinic have it? No one knows, it's fiction, hush.
> 
> Would you leave someone alone after two hours of practice with a rifle? I would, if it was Sherlock. Hush.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.

    “Hey John?”  
  
“Yeah, Greg?”  
  
Back on the roof, they lay side by side in the darkness. Sundown had come quickly, giving the former police officer a shivery sense of foreboding. Of course, that could also be because John decided to bring Anderson onto the roof with them. Oh God.  
  
“Easier to navigate that metal contraption without the guns?”  
  
John chuckled. “Oh yeah. But then again, I’ve had to scale compound walls with full battle kit. Fire escapes are nothing, really.” He threw a smirk in the direction of the grey haired man. “You get up easier the second time around, old man?”  
  
Greg grumbled. This was going to be a thing, he supposed. Must be the camaraderie coming out. He was beginning to feel like one of the boys... “Okay, you got me. Yeah, it was easier.”  
  
John’s smirk turned into a full on grin as he shifted position behind the long range rifle at his shoulder. Mycroft sent, in addition to the guns, two utterly fantastic night vision scopes, and John was completely geeking out over them. “I mean, these things are just beautiful, Greg. Stunning. Perfect line of sight, visual is clear, hell these must be the next-gen models.”  
  
“You sound like you wanna make love to one, Watson,” Anderson growled.  
  
Greg spared a glance back at his coworker. “How’re you holding up back there, Tim?”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
John huffed. “Don’t you want to put some mileage on that handgun, get used to it?”  
  
“I’m _fine_.”  
  
“Alright. Jeeze.” John went back to his half of the street. It was awful quiet since Greg took out that first poor sod to walk on Baker Street. He peered through the scope. “Question is...where are the others?”  
  
Greg muttered under his breath, but John could pick out, ‘hell if I know’.  
  
Anderson snorted.  “Just calm down, Rambo." John narrowed his eyes at the man. "It’s only been since this morning that everyone disappeared. You don’t honestly believe that a virus can spread that quickly, do you?”  
  
“Tim. I’m a doctor. Of course I do. That’s what viruses _do_.”  
  
A metallic scrape caught everyone’s attention.  
  
"Jesus, what if they can climb? Hell, why wouldn’t they?” Greg muttered and tightened his grip on the assault rifle as John cleanly stood and unlimbered his Browning, cocked the hammer, switched the safety on,  and held it pointed at the ground. Anderson froze.  
  
“Who’s there?” John spoke calmly but firm.  
  
“Um, me. Uh, Molly.” A head popped up, and immediately quailed when she saw the gun in John’s hand. “C-can I come up?”  
  
John re-holstered the handgun, keeping it cocked. “Yeah, come on up.” He sort of shook his shoulders to release some tension. Greg nodded, then looked at Anderson and mouthed ‘SEE’. The man only glowered at his boss.  
  
The slim pathologist hopped over the barrier. “Hi. Um. I, uh, can I talk to you a moment, John?” She shuffled her feet. “It’s kind of important.”  
  
“Sure! What’s up?”  
  
“Sherlock- well, he says the experiments are set up and ready for the first of the zombies, but he needs...well, we need... um, healthy tissue to use as a control.”  
  
John stepped back a bit. "When Sherlock said 'healthy tissue', he didn't have a gleam in his eyes, did he?"  
  
“Say, what are you working on, anyway?” Greg looked over his shoulders at the road. No zombies. Great. “Mycroft got you doing some secret stuff?”  
  
Molly smiled. “We are working out what exactly this virus is, how it works and how it travels from host to host. Once we figure that out, we can start working on a usable vaccine or antidote.”  
  
“A cure, you mean.” Anderson finally seemed interested.  
  
“Not really a cure, no. The bodies are already dead and mostly dessicated, correct?”  
  
“According to the reports, yeah.”  
  
“Then bringing one back to life would be pointless. Trust me, we don’t really want to ‘cure’ these people.” Molly brushed her hand through her hair. “Unless the virus shows a long incubation period, which so far it seems to be acting immediately so most likely not. Maybe in the future, when there are sufficient generations of the virus where it begins to mutate into a less lethal form, if it ever does, then we can start considering a cure, as you call it.”  
  
John cocked his head. “Sorry, you said ‘healthy tissue samples’. I know that’s important, I’m a doctor, but are we talking...cheek swabs, or what?”  
  
“I believe so, unless Sherlock has a different idea.”  
  
John snorted. "Sherlock always has 'different ideas'. Just depends on his mood."  
  
Molly paused. “I mean, if it isn’t too much trouble...”  
  
“I’ll do it.”  
  
John and Greg looked at Anderson.  
  
“Really? You will?” Molly perked right up.  
  
“Are you sure?” Greg looked askance at his partner. “It could be more than just a pinprick, you know. Who knows with Holmes?”  
  
“It’s fine. I’d rather do this and feel useful for once, instead of dropping hammers on feet and killing people.” Anderson glanced pointedly at John, whose eyebrow quirked up. “If that means becoming a human guinea pig, fine. Besides, if it saves some people, I’m all for it. Count me in.”  
  
John nodded once. “I knew you’d find some way to help.”  
  
Molly smiled warmly at Anderson. “Great! That’s good! Um, if you want to come down with me, I can get you started. Routine check up, you see.” She beckoned the tall man on with her right hand. “Granted, um, I’m used to working with corpses, I’m reasonably certain I still know my way around a blood pressure cuff and thermometer.” Even John laughed at that one, and for the first time since, well, since John met the man, Anderson smiled. Really smiled.  
  
“Well,” Greg grunted when the two went over the roof lip and began descending the fire escape, “that went rather well, I think.”  
  
“Yeah, wonder how it’s gonna go once Sherlock gets his paws on him.”  
  
Greg barked out a laugh. “Dear God, I don’t want to know, I really don’t.”  
  
John waved his hand. “Let’s get back into position, mate.”  
  
  
  
    “Well, that wasn’t so bad.”  
  
Anderson now sported a black and white checkered plaster from where Sherlock had taken a small sample of his skin using a skin punch much like the ones he used during his investigations. (“Don’t worry, Anderson. It really won’t hurt that bad.”)(Funny thing was, it really didn’t.)  
  
Sherlock looked sidelong at him and smirked. “I told you it would be a simple procedure, nothing to worry about, didn’t I?”  
  
“Well, yeah.”  
  
“I don’t hold grudges.”  
  
Anderson cocked his head. “Really.”  
  
“No, I do not, Timothy.” Sherlock peeled off the exam gloves and tossed them into a biohazard bin. “I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.” He jerked up as Anderson gaped. “Dear God, there _is_ something wrong with me! I...just apologized to... _you_...” He shook his head sadly, and Anderson couldn’t help but laugh.  
  
“Don’t worry about it, Freak. We’re all under a lot of stress. Go figure. The world just freakin’ crashed, and here we are. I think we are all entitled to a freak-out.” The forensics expert looked down at the....rather horrid carpet. What the hell color was it supposed to be, anyway. “God, this is hideous.”  
  
“Hmm?” Sherlock looked down at the spot Anderson was looking at. “Ah, yes. Well.”  
  
Anderson laughed again. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry. I guess.” He shrugged. “Should have just let you go.”  
  
“I don’t like being touched.”  
  
“John said as much.”  
  
“I supposed he threatened you with bodily harm if you did it again?”  
  
“Pretty much.”  
  
“Perhaps one day I’ll tell my story, tell you all why I don’t like people touch...” Sherlock stopped again, and shook his head. “Jesus, what the hell am I saying? I need a CAT scan. I think I may have hit my head and am dreaming this conversation. Or it's one hell of a hallucination.”  
  
This time, Anderson couldn’t even breathe, he was laughing so hard.  
  
“Okay, Tim.” Sherlock wiggled his hand and twiddled the pipette in his hand. “I think I’m done with you. Get out of here and leave me alone, you skin cell.”  
  
Anderson laughed all the way out the door.  
  
  
  
    “Son of a bitch.” Rustle. Grunt.  
  
Greg looked up from the small lay-down he was enjoying. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Come over here, and be quiet about it,” John hissed, and motioned the inspector forward.  
  
“Zombies?”  
  
“Yes. Hush.”  
  
Greg got behind the L85 once again, and took a quick look through the scope. Yep. Around fifteen of the bastards were making their way slowly up the street. He gasped. “Oh my God...” They looked...horrid. Right out of a horror movie, really. The one in the lead apparently died in the bath, because he was in his all-together. An old man scraped along, dragging his walker behind him. There was even a child missing her lower jaw...fuck. He shook his head in complete disbelief.  
  
“If it helps, Greg, these people are already dead,” John whispered urgently. “The virus already killed them, or their fellow zombies did the job. These are corpses with a major adrenaline burst keeping them moving.” He set up a case of rounds and three full magazines on his left side, then pulled out his mobile, punched a few buttons, frowned, and placed that by his side too.  Greg could hear the ringtone - the doctor must have put it on speaker. A click came over the line as the ringer stopped.  
  
“Yes John?”  
  
“Sherlock. You are about to have a lot of corpses to study, be happy." A sudden screech sounded over the connection, and the two men could hear Sherlock's heavy sigh. "How is everything holding up in there?”  
  
“If you mean is anyone panicking because of the large amount of zombies walking up the street, then all hell is breaking loose in here. If you mean is it something we can handle, then yes, we are fine.”  
  
“Good. Sounds great. Now, get the girls downstairs and into Martha’s flat, check the windows that we haven’t boarded up, and check that front door. Make sure the locks are still engaged. Have Anderson stay with the girls for moral support. Give him Greg’s shotgun. Don’t let him shoot his foot off.”  
  
“Yes sir. Anything else, sir?” Greg could almost hear the smart-ass smirk the man had to be sporting right now. John grinned.  
  
“Is Molly with you right now?”  
  
“Yes, she’s busy.  May I take a message?”  
  
“Alright, dick. Fine.” John took a quick look down at the street. “It’s about to get loud. Hell, really should have sprung for the silenced version of this beast.”  
  
“You know what they say about hindsight, John.”  
  
“Always twenty-twenty.”  
  
“No.” A pause. “It’s completely useless. I’m checking everything now - no, Martha, they don’t need tea up there. I’m sure they are fine. I’m fine, everyone else is going into your - no, Molly has tea will you PLEASE JUST GO DOWNSTAIRS MRS.HUDSON!”  
  
John and Greg laughed. “Alright, Sherlock, just cool your jets.” Greg said.  
  
“Ah, hold on a moment." Apparently, Sherlock was messing with something on the phone itself, and then he was back. "Mycroft just sent me a text. Apparently, he is in an establishment that has access to live-feed maps around the city, which leads me to believe he is more than just a civil servant. Wherever he is, the map is showing a lot of action in Central London.”  
  
“Oh, shit.” Greg breathed out in a huff. Damn it. John held up his hand.  
  
“We’ll take it one at a time, Sherlock.”  
  
“Very well. I just wanted to give you a heads up. I’ll be up soon.”  
  
“Thanks. Talk to you later.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John cocked his head. “Wait, why are you -"  
  
A click signified the end of the call.  
  
John closed his eyes for a moment. “Sometimes I forget this is London.” He shook his head. “Until Sherlock gets up here, I need you to watch the other end of the road. I will handle the threat on this side.”  
  
Greg nodded.  
  
The bolt on the sniper rifle snicked smoothly as John chambered a round. He settled behind the monster, the gravel beneath him scraping and shifting as he made small adjustments to his position. An air of what could only be called charged calm replaced the jovial mood of before. Well, John was calm, at any rate. Greg’s breath shuddered out of his lungs as he tried to calm himself. Jesus.  
  
He barely heard John’s words as he peered through his scope.  
  
“Alright. Let’s do this, hell spawn. Come to Papa.”  
  
  
  
    Sherlock flew down the stairs just as Anderson walked out of Mrs. Hudson’s flat. “The women alright, Tim?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Good.” A glance spared at the door told him that the locks were just fine.  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
“Fuck!” Anderson looked as surprised as Sherlock was at the curse that tumbled out of his mouth. “Sorry, Freak. Took me by surpr-”  
  
Crack! Crack-Crack-Crack!  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
Sherlock winced. “I know. Is Sally alright, keeping an eye on Sarah and Mrs. Hudson?”  
  
“Yeah, she kicked me out, said it was girl’s night in and there were no boys allowed.”  
  
Sherlock’s lip quirked up. “Fine. You keep Molly company.”  
  
Anderson stared as the younger man shot back up the stairs. “What - wait, now where the hell are you going?”  
  
“The roof!”  
  
Crack! Crack!  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
  
  
    Greg changed magazines and fumbled with the the full one for a moment.  
  
“Calm down, mate.” John tapped the policeman on the shin with his boot. “These guys don’t move fast, and they don’t shoot back. Take your time.”  
  
All sixteen (there was another one hiding behind a guy who must have weighed at least 39 stone) walking corpses had been turned into lying-down-and-not-moving corpses rather quickly. Greg felt exhilarated. Maybe he should look into that.  
  
A rattling behind the pair woke them right up from their post-battle haze. A voice accompanied the noise.  
  
“Don’t shoot me, I’m not a zombie nor a terrorist!”  
  
John giggled madly as Sherlock’s wild hair cleared the roof lip. “Jesus, you git!” The tall man hopped over the barrier as if it wasn’t there.  
  
Greg grumbled in a good natured way. “Oi, don’t be carrying on like that, someone may hear, you berk!”  
  
Sherlock smirked and strode over to where John and Greg lay. “All the zombies gone? That was quick.”  
  
“There could be more.”  
  
“There will be more, Gregory.” Sherlock fiddled with his mobile and thrust it into the inspector’s face. “This is the most up to date map of Central London, as of thirty minutes ago.”  
  
“Oh, shit.” Greg’s brown eyes bugged.  
  
“Yes. You said that before.”  
  
“I know I did, Holmes!” He dragged his hand through his hair. “Oh, shit.”  
  
John levered himself onto his right side, so he could see both of his friends better.  
  
“So you came up here?”  
  
“Yes, I told you I would.”  
  
“Why?” John patted his metal and composite material baby. “Do you want to give this a shot?”  
  
“Interesting choice of words, John.” Greg sniggered.  
  
Sherlock nodded. “Actually, John, I am curious. I did some basic research on the Browning, and I can already use it accurately.”  
  
“If you were shooting a water buffalo.” John smiled as Greg sniggered again. “Or a wall.”  
  
“Oh, shut up!”  
  
“Anyway?” Greg prodded. “Don’t need a domestic on the roof of a building.”  
  
Both men shot Greg with a glare. “Anyway,” Sherlock continued, “I am interested in learning how to operate either one of these. I’d rather start with the one that isn’t going to break my shoulder and clavicle.”  
  
John jerked his head. “Get over here, then.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him as though he grew another head. “I said the one that wouldn’t -”  
  
“Yeah, that assault rifle kicks like a fuckin’ camel. Get over here.”  
  
Sherlock folded down onto both knees on the gravel. “So what makes this gun different? I would think that with the higher firepower that it would be harder to use.”  
  
“Well, for one thing, it’s meant to be a long distance shooter, and only that. It’s highly specialized, so it is built for accuracy. The barrel is a free floating barrel, which means it isn’t attached to the stock, but to the receiver and scope. It can’t have the kick of the SA80 over there; that would throw off the shot and make you miss your target. Essentially, if you wanted to beat your target to death at mid-range, you would use the SA80. If you want to reach out and touch your target on the shoulder at long distance, you’d use this.” John patted the ground next to him. “Lay down on your stomach.”  
  
Sherlock obliged.  
  
“Now, another difference is the ammunition each uses. Pay attention, because this is important. The SA80 uses a five point fifty-six by forty-five millimeter round NATO round only. Since you can change out the barrel of the L118A1, you can actually change the round that it uses, as long as everything else matches up. This one is chambered for a seven point sixty-two by fifty-one millimeter NATO round. Do not mix up the ammo.” He grabbed a magazine. “This gun has a ten round magazine, and the SA80 has a thirty round magazine.”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
“Okay. I’m going to show you-”  
  
Greg jerked back from his scope. “John. There’s more coming.”  
  
Sure enough, there were more, coming from both ends of the street. John called it at around...hell, who knows? Thirty?  
  
“Alright. Lesson’s not quite over, Sherlock. Watch me.”  
  
The detective nodded again.  
  
“Though you might want to cover your ears.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Greg, let me know when you’ve got your targets.”  
  
The inspector took a scant moment. “Got ‘em.”  
  
“Perfect. Let’s rock and roll.”  
  
Sherlock clapped his hands over his ears.  
  
  
  
    Sally winced as the gunfire started up again.  
  
“Oh, I hope those boys are careful up there.” Mrs. Hudson shuffled around her kitchen, making more tea and generally being motherly. The sergeant watched her closely, and sighed.  
  
“Why do you care so much about the freak?”  
  
The older woman looked up and studied Sally. Finally, she smiled and came around the half wall and sat in her rocking chair. “He helped me out when I was in Florida. Such a headstrong and energetic young man. Really saw things, you know? And he believed me when no one else did. His eyes always looked right down into my soul, it seemed.” She had a wistful look on her face - that quickly disappeared as another round of fire rumbled through the flat. “Oh dear.” She plucked at her knitted shawl. “Sherlock reminds me so much of my late husband. Always dashing about, making messes everywhere, forgetting to plug in the kettle. Always busy with his projects, always doing something; and when he isn’t busy, he turns into a stroppy petulant man-child.”  
  
“Really,” Sally said dryly.  
  
Mrs. Hudson smiled. “But he’s a much better man than Kevin ever was, that’s for certain.”  
  
“Really?” Now Sally was intrigued. “How so?”  
  
“Well, he always made sure I was safe. Sherlock would come to the house I had there, and would spend the night watching for people. He would make me tea. He would scrub dishes, saying that I could consider it included in his bill.” The older woman smiled. “Of course, there was never a bill.”  
  
“What did your husband do that Freak had to protect you?”  
  
Mrs. Hudson huffed. “Kevin was mixed up with the Mob.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Oh, yes. And Sherlock, bless his soul, he proved it, and made sure no one would touch me because of the verdict. Of course, I honestly believe he asked his brother for help. Oh, poor Mycroft. I do hope he’s okay and in a safe place. He’s such a nice man, and polite, too.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I’m willing to bet that Mycroft got all of the pleasant genes, and Sherlock got all the headstrong genes.” She tittered and grinned. Even Sally had to smile at that. This woman really liked Freak and his brother.  
  
“Sherlock solved the case with no problems. Oh. Well, there was the small shoot out in one of Kevin’s warehouses on the wharf in Miami, but Sherlock was able to escape that without even a scratch, really. He accompanied me back here to London too. Did you know that he is absolutely terrified of flying in an aeroplane? Can’t trust two heavy slabs of metal attached to another heavy slab of metal, he says. The basic premise behind flying is so simple that something must go wrong.” She laughed softly. “Falling’s just like flying, just with a more permanent destination, he says.”  
  
More gunfire.  
  
Sarah walked into the kitchen. “Sally. I’m sure John won’t notice if you grab a long shower. You know he’s right, yes? About the water issue?”  
  
“I know, I know. Hell, may as well get used to it now.”  
  
“There’s my girl!” Sally smiled at Mrs. Hudson.  
  
“Thanks for the tea again, Martha.”  
  
“Oh, anytime, sweetie.”  
  
More gunfire, along with a quieter popping noise. Sally figured someone had broken out the sidearm.  
  
  
  
    After a couple of hours on the roof, John felt confident enough to leave his friend alone with the sniper rifle (Jesus, that man had to be one of the quickest studies he’d ever seen, short of Murray) and Greg. He needed to get some rest, or he’d be useless for the rest of the day. He glanced at his watch: 02:43. Yeowch. Okay, not the worst he’d seen (there was that Blind Banker case where he and Sherlock had stayed up all night looking for matching books. That was probably the most boring night of his life, and that included standing guard outside of Camp Bastion during the week that absolutely zero Taliban resided in Afghanistan it seemed.), but it was close. He also needed to talk to Sarah.  
  
He made it through the window just fine, only to be felled by Tobias, who just happened to take interest in his shoelace. He huffed out a breath and scooped the tiny tyrant up.  
  
“You little hellion. I’m sure you were the one who ate my bacon sarnie earlier.”  
  
Toby stared at his face.  
  
“Okay, either you or Gladstone. Either way, I’ll figure it out.” He popped his head into the lab room to check on Molly. “Hey, how are you holding up - Anderson? What are you still doing here?”  
  
The man in question looked up from where he was holding two test tubes for the pathologist. “Oh, hey, John. I gave Sally the shotgun because she kicked me out of that flat. Said that it was girl’s night only; no boys allowed. Figured since Sherlock was going up to the roof with you crazy bastards that I would stay and keep Molly company.”  
  
“Okay.” John nodded. “Does Sally know how to use that thing?”  
  
“Not much to it. Point it at center mass and pull the trigger.” Anderson shrugged. “If Constable Meeks could figure it out, Sally can.”  
  
“Who is Meeks? Don’t think I met him at Scotland Yard.”  
  
“Young guy, relatively new. Just out of school, actually. Came into work once with his shoes on the wrong feet and complained about sore feet all day until someone took pity on the poor sod and told him to switch his shoes.”  
  
“Ah. A smart one, then, eh?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Hell, had a couple of those back in the Army.”  
  
“You’ll have to tell us that story, John” Molly squinted at him.  
  
John nodded tiredly. “Yeah, okay. Just not tonight. I’m going to fall over if I don’t get some sleep soon.”  
  
Both forensics experts nodded.  
  
  
  
    “Hey, Mrs. Hud- oh, sorry. Martha. Hello.”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry, John. Here, have a nice cuppa. Staying up on that roof until all hours, it's not healthy. And you being a doctor, you should know better-” Scattered gunfire erupted. John sighed and rolled his shoulders. Mrs. Hudson hummed and handed him a cup of tea. “You look like you could use a few hours to yourself, John.”  
  
John waved her off. “Oh, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, Martha. I’ll be fine.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson tutted her tongue at the soldier. “Drink up!”   
  
The doctor smiled at his landlady and downed the cup in one gulp, then handed it back to her. "Another, if you don't mind, Martha."  
  
Sarah looked up from a book as John walked into the sitting room. “Hi, John.” She set it aside.  
  
“Hey there, Sarah. Feeling any better?”  
  
She smiled and nodded her head. “Felt good to get it out.”  
  
“Sherlock told me you were waiting to talk to me.” He took the mug of Earl Grey from Martha. “Ta.”  
  
“Yeah, but between your friend staring at me like I was a puzzle and Lestrade being all understanding and buddy-buddy with me, I finally broke down and told them.”  
  
John sipped his tea. “Sherlock and Greg are investigators. Of course they are going to make you crack.” He chuckled and Sarah smiled even more. “I’m glad to hear you speak again, that’s for sure. I was starting to worry about you.”  
  
“Ah, there really wasn’t anything to worry about." John narrowed his eyes at her. “Well, okay, yeah there was. But that’s not the point.”  
  
John took another sip. “Do you want to tell me now?”  
  
“Considering I didn’t tell them the whole story...yeah.”  
  
She sat back against the plushness of the love seat and pulled her knees to her chest. John sat down next to her, their sides pressing together. He put his left arm around her shoulders and squeezed, drawing her to him. Mrs. Hudson came over with a fresh mug of tea for Sarah, who took it gratefully. After a couple of sips, the older woman disappeared and they were left alone. Sarah looked at the far wall.  
  
“It was two days after the video from Toronto aired. Everyone who was even remotely sick flooded into the hospitals. I don’t blame you for ditching the surgery; it gave you time to plan and put together this rather amazing safe-house. None of us really believed it, you know? We kept thinking it would blow over, or it was a scare tactic like with the avian flu. So many drug companies made money off the vaccinations alone before people realized they didn’t protect against that form of flu. Hell, I didn’t even believe it until Greg shot that first one in the street. We were so swamped with people, I didn’t know what to do, really. I kept telling people they were fine, that it wasn’t rabies, that colds and the flu still made its way around, even during an international health crisis. Some people were hard to convince, though, and I found myself giving out so many sugar pills and saline shots that my brain was spinning. Near closing time on that second day, a man staggered in. I called him back to my office, seeing as he was the last one of the day and all the other doctors had gone home. I started off with the typical GP questions. He just kept getting more and more incoherent. I began to worry - one of the symptoms of 'rabies’, as it were, is cognitive instability, right?”  
  
John nodded and sipped his tea.  
  
“So I started asking more specific questions like 'has anybody attacked you in the last 48 hours’, and 'have you been bitten by an animal or person that looked rabid,’...and suddenly this guys just...went bat-shit!” She took a deep breath. “He started screaming about the end of the world, God’s Divine Wrath, and other crazy things. That’s were I first heard the actual term.”  
  
“What term?” John asked.  
  
“Zombie.” Crack-BOOM!  
  
“Oh. Got you.” More gunfire.  
  
“Anyway, this guys was cracking right in front of me. I reached for my phone to call security, and he picked up his chair and threw it at me.”  
  
John’s eyes bugged. “Jesus-”  
  
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I didn’t even have time to call for help. I just had to get out of there. In the moment after he threw the chair, I ran. I knew he’d follow, so I went to the mini-pharmacy where we keep our injectables and pills- duh, you know that!” She laughed. “I blindly grabbed a vial and stuck a syringe into it, and filled it completely. Didn’t even look to see what it was. Then the bastard had me on my back, ranting as he wrapped his hands around my neck, saying that he was going to spare me a horrible death, I just had to trust him. I jabbed him in the neck and he went rigid, screamed, and convulsed violently. More importantly, he let go of me to grab his own neck, and I got out from underneath him and backed into a corner and just sobbed. God, John, I was so scared. So scared! No one’s tried to kill me - well, not since those Chinese acrobats.” She smiled weakly. “At least that time, it was going to be death by a pretty interesting, fancy contraption, not some psychotic sweaty man with his hands wrapped around my neck, saying he was going to save me by killing me.” She shuddered., and John gripped her tighter. “After he stopped moving completely - hell, it must have been what? Ten minutes? - I finally thought to check the vial to see what I had given the man. John, why the hell do we have potassium chloride at the surgery?”  
  
“I have no clue, love.”  
  
“Oh well. It doesn’t really matter now, does it?” She shrugged. “I should thank my lucky stars that it was there. I don’t think anything else would have done the trick. When I realized what had transpired, I grabbed my things, locked the doors, and went home. Sat on the floor, sobbed for a couple hours, then began making arrangements. She laid her head on John’s shoulder. “And there’s my story.”  
  
John huffed out a breath. “Damn. Sarah, you are one brave woman, I’ll say that.”  
  
“Sherlock said that too. He also said that I was now officially given permission to date you.”  
  
“Damn it, Sherlock.” John shook his head with a long-suffering smirk curving his lips. “Always trying to control my life.”  
  
“Well, he’s your best friend. Hell, you guys are like brothers, practically.”  
  
“I would have killed him a long time ago if he was my brother, love.”  
  
“He also suggested I have sex with you tonight.”  
  
John groaned. “You have got to be - Oh, for fuck’s sake.”  
  
“Or at least perform oral on you. His words, exactly. 'Sarah, you should have sex with John tonight, or at least perform oral on him. I believe he would appreciate it.' ” Sarah was grinning like a fool.  
  
John blushed bright red and plotted his friend's demise. “He's dead. I’m actually going to kill that prat. He’s a _dead man.”_  
  
Sarah laughed. “My room?”  
  
“Oh, God yes.”


	6. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast, sex, and that front door really isn't as strong as you'd like to think, John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Hetero sex. Hell, some people don't like it, so I'll warn. 
> 
> Hmmm... no actual notes to make about this one, I think.

    Breakfast table. 08:04. Greg sucked down his fourth cup of high-test coffee. Sherlock snuffled, snorted, grabbed the salt shaker blindly, and turned his head over on his arm.  
  
“Still sound asleep, I see?” Martha set a plate of eggs in front of the D.I.  
  
“Ta. Yeah. God, they kept coming last night! I think we killed at least one hundred between us. He was having so much fun, that crazy git. Almost as much fun as John.” Greg chuckled as the sleeping man up-ended the shaker and flicked it away with his long fingers. “John and Tim relieved us at dawn, and Sherlock promptly passed out.”  
  
“He can fall asleep in the strangest places. Once, I discovered him on the floor of the kitchen, wrapped around his laptop.” The older lady tittered. “John’s found him in the bathtub and the stairs, both the ones leading to the flat out there and the ones leading upstairs.”  
  
“The bathtub? Wow, I thought I was the only one that did that, and only after a hard night’s drinking!” Greg laughed. “Figures, the man deprives himself of sleep so much during cases.”  
  
“The boy needs his rest, that’s for sure. Looks like it didn’t take John too long to get him into a regular sleep schedule, though. doesn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah, normally he’d still be going.” Greg shook his head slowly. “I think he just wore himself out making long distance deductions about the zombies.”  
  
Crack!  
  
“Ah. Tim got the hang of it, I guess.”  
  
Crack!  
  
“And the zombies return.”  
  
  
  
  
    “Ha! I got one!”  
  
John chuckled under his breath and patted the proud man on the shoulder. “Yeah. Pretty good shot, too. Problem is, you have to get their brain. Destroy the brain, destroy the threat.”  
  
Tim looked a little deflated.  
  
“Hey. Considering you have never touched a gun before in your life except as evidence, I’d count that as a win.” That seemed to cheer Tim up.  
  
The black businessman who only had half an arm crawled back to his feet, a gaping hole in his shoulder. John tried not thinking that the wound looked much like the one he’d gotten in Afghanistan, only in reverse.  
  
The zombie roared.  
  
That sound gave both men on the roof pause.  
  
The zombies hadn’t made that noise yet.  
  
As the echo rolled over them, it crawled down their spines and chilled their blood. Oh God.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I’m gonna shoot him now.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
The report shot through the cluttered street as the zombie’s head exploded, spraying blackened blood and brain matter everywhere.  
  
Anderson sighed. “That. That was a bit scary, actually.”  
  
“Yeah.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t really sound human, did it?”  
  
“Maybe...they aren’t human anymore.”  
  
  
  
  
    Greg put his mobile down on the table. “John just texted me. It’s pretty dead out there right now - oh, hell.” He dropped his head into his hands. “Shit. I’m going to have to find a new metaphor... anyway, it’s slow out there, so they’re coming back in.”  
  
Sally and Sarah rounded the corner into the kitchen.  
  
“We smell coffee. Hi, Greg.” Sally stared at the snoring lump of dark brown hair on the table. “Out cold, isn’t he?”  
  
“Yeah. Been out for about two hours now. How are you feeling, Sarah?” Greg handed the girls their cups.  
  
“Great, actually. Talking to John really helped. He understands, I guess, about the...killing. So I’m feeling much better.”  
  
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Hudson snickered softly as the women settled into chairs. “Could that bit of a love bite have anything to do with it, too?”  
  
All eyes went to the GP’s neck immediately. Sarah stared at them, then gasped and slapped a hand over a spot just before the start of her neck. Her skin turned a brilliant hue of rose. “Oh my GOD!”  
  
The table burst into laughter.  
  
"J'n?" Snuffle. "John, don' touchhhh...th' liv'r s'mpls..."  
  
Everybody sort of...stared at the sleeping detective.  
  
"What?" Greg leaned down to hear what Sherlock said.  
  
"Th' r for Myyyycr'f.... got...cod in th' ov'n 'n' I don' want 'immmm...eating all of it.... liv'r's for 'im."  
  
The laughter began again.  
  
  
    Anderson bounded into the kitchen not ten minutes later, crowing about his kill. John followed sedately, snatched a bowl from the drying board, filled it with corn flakes, grabbed a cup of coffee, and disappeared.  
  
Greg squinted after the doctor. “Well, that’s not good.”  
  
Anderson waved his hand. “Naw, he left the guns in the entry way so he could clean them. He probably wants to be left alone for a while.” He leaned against Sally’s chair. “So did you guys hear a weird sound from the zombies last night, boss?”  
  
Greg tipped his head to the side. “No. Just...moaning, grunting, snapping, groaning. Oh, and shuffling.”  
  
Anderson sighed. “Yeah, well, expect more noises. Scary ones. We just had one pretty much roar at us.”  
  
“Roar?” Sally sat back in her chair so she could see Anderson better. “People don’t roar, Tim. They can’t. Their vocal boxes don’t work like that.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Sarah blinked. “I don’t like that.”  
  
“I know.” Anderson shook his head. “Neither do I.”  
  
“So what you’re saying is that this virus thing...sort of turns people into, what, animals?” Greg scraped the last of the egg yolk on his toast and shoved it into his mouth.  
  
“Not just animals, Greg. Monsters.”  
  
Sarah’s chair scraped the lino as she pushed back from the table and stood. “I’m going to talk to him. Thanks for the coffee, Martha.”  
  
“Oh, you don’t have to thank me, sweetie. Greg’s the one who brought it. Poor John, all he got was tea and beer.”  
  
  
    John ran the oil-soaked rag over the bolt of the sniper rifle slowly, enjoying the calming effect the routine had on his racing mind. _‘Is this what it feels like in Sherlock’s mind all the time? All these thoughts running havok through with no target or destination?’_ God, what a mess. And he was doing so well, too. Well, until that fucking zombie opened its mouth and changed the playing field. He couldn’t think of these...things...in terms of opponents like the Taliban anymore.  
  
These things were monsters.  
  
Pure hell on earth.  
  
That sound was going to stay with him for the rest of his life - however long that life would be now. He didn’t hold any hope. He was serious when he told Anderson that anyone left in populated areas were dead.  
  
Another wipe of the rag, and the bolt gleamed. Hell. God damn and buggering fuck. He set it down next to him, on the gun roll, and went to pick up another piece.  
  
“John?”  
  
He jerked his head up. “Hey. Sarah, hi. Here, come sit.” He patted the floor on his other side. She took the invitation and lowers herself down, placing her hands on his shoulders as she does.  
  
“Wow, John. You are really tense.” She begins kneading the muscles, taking care around the scar on his left shoulder. He nodded. “John, are you alright?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just needed time to think, that’s all.” He sets aside the rag and pulled her around to kiss her. The kiss was chaste, but held promises unspoken, which made her giggle.  
  
John leaned back, perplexed. “Something the matter?”  
  
Sarah shook her head, still laughing, and pointed at her neck, where the dark bruise resided. “They noticed.”  
  
John groaned. “I am so sorry about that.”  
  
“No, don’t be!” She touched his collar bone. “Just wait until they see your collection.”  
  
He smirked. “Heh, yeah.”  
  
“Besides, I didn’t get the third degree. Sherlock is passed out on the table.”  
  
“Hm. Wouldn’t be the strangest place he’s passed out.”  
  
“He muttered something about liver, Mycroft, and cod bake in the oven.”  
  
“And that wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he has ever said in his sleep, either.” John kissed her again. “Who saw it first?”  
  
“Martha.”  
  
“Oh, God. I’m going to be poisoned in my sleep because she’ll think I’m cheating on Sherlock.” John squinted as Sarah sort of...looked at him. “Um. Yeah. That didn’t come out ... actually, there is no way that could have come out any way other than really not on.” He hung his head. “God, I need sleep. Sorry. Mrs. Hudson’s got it in her head that Sherlock and I are...together.”  
  
Sarah smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about that. You weren’t exactly quiet last night, and we _were_ in her flat.”  
  
“Oh, God. I am definitely dead.”  
  
His defeated tone made her laugh again. “Hey. Breakfast is up there. Are you going to eat something?” She nudged his good leg.  
  
“Probably not.” He looked at his sad little bowl of corn flakes. “Not hungry.”  
  
Sarah shifted her position so she could lean across his lap and grasp his face in both hands. “We could make you hungry.”  
  
John’s pupils blew out as he grabbed her hips. “Oh, yes. Yes. Yes we could. Yes.”  
  
Their lips met in the middle.  
  
Soft warmth enveloped John’s lips as Sarah stroked them with her quick little tongue, coaxing them open so she could gain access to his mouth. Of course, he let her in because that allowed him entrance to hers. Their tongues warred with each other, stroking and caressing, teasing and feeling, winning little moans and whispers of breath out of the lovers. Hands roamed all over and under clothing, touching skin, stroking skin. John’s mouth broke away and licked a trail down Sarah’s jaw to his favorite spot, where the neck and shoulder meet. He sucked there, interspersing short nips and bites with long, slow, teasing drags of tongue that had her moaning and melting in his arms.  
  
“Christ, you like that, don’t you?” he breathed, massaging her breast through her bra.  
  
“Oh....my, John!”  
  
John growled a bit and nipped her shoulder. “Let’s see what else we can do here.” His left hand traveled down, down, down ...  
  
“OH!” Sarah jerked excitedly when she felt her jeans button pop open. Her fly followed, and then his large hand insinuated itself inside her pants and straight to the damp folds of her cunt.  
  
“John, _please_!”  
  
He hummed at her neck, licked and nipped. “Yes, love?”  
  
Sarah squirmed, trying to get more sensation out of his questing hand. “Oh, _god_.”  
  
John’s lips formed a smile against the tendon in her neck as he hooked his wrist, making more room for his fingers to work at her core. He slipped one right in, relishing her sighs. His right hand held her tight against him as the combination of his mouth and fingers drove her to new heights of desire. She writhed and ground against his hips, making him growl with the sensations.  The noises she made...holy hell. His cock already throbbed within the confines of his denims, but each moan sparked a new fire in his gut. Her body shook against his in ecstasy as she latched onto his earlobe and sucked - hard. And didn’t _that_ just sent a jolt straight to his cock? He added a finger and curled them towards her pelvic bone and pressed his thumb, now slick with her juices, right to her clit and rubbed in gentle circles. The high keen that broke out of her mouth traveled through his brain and shut down non essential processes, like breathing. Oh bloody _hell_...  
  
“Oh, _god John_!”  
  
That did it. John laid her back on the rug and pulled her trousers and pants down to her ankles in one go, not even bothering with her trainers. “Knees on my shoulders, love.” She obeyed quickly, with a sigh from Heaven. He could see her in all of her stunning glory, smell her sex, and it drove him insane. “God.” He smirked up at her. “You look delectable, love.” He lowered his head and breathed deeply.  
  
“John.” A hand found its way to the back of his head, an invitation to indulge. So he did.  
  
The first taste of her skin made him throb in pleasure. Oral was something he always enjoyed, and this was no exception. He just adored how Sarah tasted. His tongue swirled and lapped, pressed at her nub and stabbed deep into her, making her keen and grip his hair. Desire thrummed deep in his gut. God! He took his time, drawing out each brilliant sound and exquisite tremor. He nipped lightly at her inner thigh when he took breaths and used his hand on her, then kept two fingers inside as he devoured her. A few light strokes of his tongue to her clitoris drover her over the edge as he scissored his fingers inside her. Desperate gasps and moans soon turned to tidal breathing and whispers of names over sweat dampened skin as she came down from that orgasmic high. She looked directly at him, her eyes as dark and lust filled as his own must have been. _And now my brain shuts down completely._  
  
“John.”  
  
“Yes, love?” He panted, too far gone to care how wanton he sounded.  
  
“Your turn.” She lifted her legs to let him out as he damned well _whined_ in need. In his scramble to open his flies, he kicked something, who the hell cared what it was while Sarah’s hands caressed and gripped his hot skin through his pants. “Jesus.”  
  
Jeans hit the floor, pants soon after, and he hit his knees in front of his beautiful woman. Her right hand coaxed him back on his heels as she swallowed him right down. He was a bit too big for her to take completely, but she made up for it by wrapping her hand around the base and worked the skin there as she laved and sucked his foreskin and glans. He didn’t even bother with words at this point - only grunts and moans were working their way out his mouth, and it was all gibberish anyway. “Hnng.” He unbuttoned her blouse and pushed both hands in; one hand slid into her bra and toyed with her nipple (earning one hell of a moan that vibrated right to his balls and oh hell yes!) and the other laid on her shoulder and squeezed, speaking the encouragement that he himself couldn’t quite manage at this point in his arousal. A ruthless twist of her hand accompanied by a hard suck whited out his vision and his torso curled into itself as he growled-whined-whimpered good _GOD almighty Christ fuck_ that felt good! Another one of those and he was done for, full stop. He felt so close already...  
  
Sarah blindly searched  for something, and his brain tried kicking out of neutral. What was she looking for? Her hand patted the ground beside them. What was she -  
  
Hard suck, only this time she paused her hand and squeezed. Oh hell. Brain sparked out again. He forgot what he was doing, thinking...hell, what was his fucking _name_?  
  
Oh, now she was using her empty hand to guide him to his knees and nudge them apart...  
  
Soft, deft doctor’s fingers slid behind his balls, caressing his perineum and oh, did _that_ feel good. God, he loved it when she did this...oh, wait. Her fingers felt different....and now they circled his entrance. Oh. That’s. Oh. God yes. Yes yes _yesyesyesyes_...  
  
She had been looking for the gun oil.  
  
Just as that thought crossed his sex-addled mind, Sarah slipped a practiced finger deep into him, as they’ve done many times before. So many, in fact, that she zeroed in on his prostate in one take and stroked. Every nerve blew up.  
  
She did it again. “HnnggraaahFUCKsarahGO-” The shaking began deep inside him. Fuck, she was stroking his very fucking core and God, it felt so-  
  
And again, with a flick of that devil’s tongue to the head of his cock. “ _Christ!_ Come on baby, come on love make it happen, God, make me come... _please_...” He tightened his grip on her shoulder to the point of bruising as he trembled, god he was so _close.._.  
  
The final drag of her finger came with that hellish twist and suck and there it was. She took him as far as she could without gagging and swallowed every hot, salty drop of his seed as he twitched and jerked and shuddered to a blissful softness of body and mind. Silence and white noise buzzed happily through his brain.  
  
When he could see again, he realized he’d fallen backwards (thankfully away from the clean sniper rifle) with his right leg bent awkwardly beneath his body. He’ll pay for that dearly later, but he couldn’t be bothered to move just then, thank you very much.  
  
“Are you okay, John?” Sarah stroked his bare thigh with the same finger that moments (minutes, hours?) ago had been caressing that very intimate part of him...guh.  
  
“Hmm....” He hummed happily. “I can’t feel my fingers.”  
  
“I take that as a yes, then?”  
  
“Pretty much the best orgasm I’ve had.”  
  
Sarah laughed as they got up. John’s eyebrows scrunched as he moved, then he spied the bowl he’d kicked over in the midst of the passion play. He groaned.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
“My breakfast is all over my back.”  
  
“Oh God.” Sarah sputtered, and they both fell into hiccuping laughter as she helped him brush off the evidence.  
  
She had just finished buttoning her jeans when John cocked his head. “D’you hear that?”  
  
She paused, and listened. It sounded like...moans.  
  
Bad ones.  
  
Zombie ones.  
  
She turned her head to John in time to catch the color drain from his face. His eyes widened. His pupils pinned. Not good, then.  
  
“Sarah. Get upstairs.” The calm voice of the soldier facing a battalion of the enemy. Definitely not good.  
  
She twisted at the hip and stared at the front door as it began to shake and creak with the force of an unknown number of fists connecting with the wood. John pushed urgently at her back.  
  
“Sarah. Now!”  
  
The banging got worse.  
  
“John, what about-”  
  
“I’ll be fine, just go!”  
  
Greg poked his head out of the upper flat’s door. “Who’s making all that - holy mother of _God_!”  
  
“Greg! Sarah, go to Greg. Greg, get everyone together in the kitchen. Now! Go!”  
  
Sarah stumbled up the stairway as John knelt and reassembled the sniper rifle in seconds, spurred by the fact that _zombies were trying to get inside_. His hand didn't twitch. Not once. _‘Jesus. Why am I so fucked up!’_ He shoved it into its bag and made a quick survey of the - fuck.  
  
He could hear the creaking getting louder, and splinters started forming in the woodwork. Damn it. He’d known it was an old door. Damn it. God damn buggering fuck and ruddy sodding hell. He was an idiot. He took a deep breath to steady himself.  
  
Greg popped back out. “Molly isn’t here, John. She must have gone to sleep sometime this morning.”  
  
“Shit. Alright. Fine. Go back in and lock the door. I’ll knock twice. Do not let anyone else in.”  
  
“John-”  
  
“Do it, Greg! I’ll get Molly!”  
  
The man nodded once, and shut the door. John heard the click. Goddamn it, would someone just fuckin’ listen to him for once?  
  
The pounding now came with the sounds of wood breaking.  
  
“Jesus, just hold up. Please, God, just a little longer.”  
  
Picking up the two rifle bags, he ran to 221C’s door and pounded as hard as he could. He didn’t quit until Molly answered, which barely took fifteen seconds.  
  
“Molly let me in _nowpleasemoveNOW_!”  
  
She moved out of the doorway, and he tumbled into her- holy hell- staircase. Fuck, nearly took a header down the stairs that he’d forgotten 221C had. He held on to the railing with a white knuckled grip.  
  
“John, what is happening?” Her cat - Tobias, yes brain WORK - yowled in distress. John looked at her.  
  
“We need to leave. Grab the cat. Forget everything else, let’s go.”  
  
Molly nodded. “Yes.” She knelt down and grabbed Tobias by the scruff of his neck. “He’s still a kitten. Calms him right down, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. Let’s go.”  
  
John backed out of the door way, Molly locked the door, and they entered the front hall together. He shifted the bags to his good shoulder and un-holstered his Browning. So far, so good. The door was holding. They moved quick. John risked a backwards glance- Molly had her Sig in her right hand and Tobias in her left. Nodding once, he turned - buggering fuck.  
  
The door twisted on its hinges as the bolts broke away from the old wood frame. Bloody, ragged, broken hands and arms reached past the small wedge of entrance immediately.  
  
“Oh, my God.” Molly whispered.  
  
John began to pray.  
  
  



	7. Nightmare in the Firelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The zombies want in, John. Why don't you make them a nice cuppa?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acid. Not sure it does all of that, but once again...don't hurt me, I'm not a chemist.
> 
> Very tired right now. If I missed anything, shoot me a line.
> 
> Still not beta'd or Brit-picked.

           221B was in utter pandemonium.  
  
Everyone talked-shouted-flailed over each other in rising volumes. Sherlock now was awake and confused. Somehow, something had gone to hell in a couple of hours. John would normally be here, calming everyone down. He was nowhere to be found, though.  
  
“Where’s John?”  
  
“He’s getting Molly.” Greg grabbed his gun from the kitchen table, checking the load. His hands shook. “He said not to open the door until he knocked twice.”  
  
Sherlock stared at the D.I., then at Sarah. “Tell me what happened.”  
  
She opened her mouth to talk, but Sherlock suddenly waved her off with a flip of his hand. “No, nevermind. Don’t. You went out to the hall to talk to John.” The detective squinted. “Though the kind of talking you two did wasn’t of the verbal type, obviously, judging by the frankly amazing love bite on your neck and the newer one next to it.” Sarah touched her neck, “It didn’t happen during, because you are fully dressed with everything buttoned just so. After, then. Something happened. Something drastic.”  
  
Greg breathed, “Jesus, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock wheeled on the frazzled man. “No, don’t ‘Jesus’ me, Lestrade! You left him out there to fend for himself, possibly Molly too. You do not get to say a thing!”  
  
Sarah stomped her foot to get Sherlock’s attention back on her. “He didn’t give us an option, Sherlock. He told us to come in. If we argued, that would have wasted precious time that neither he nor we had.”  
  
A tic formed in the detective’s right eye. “I know, I _know_ that!” He scrubbed his hands roughly through his hair. “Shit.”  
  
“I know, Sherlock. This whole thing is shit. But we have to trust John right now, yeah? That’s all we can do.” Greg clenched his jaw, waiting for a rebuttal.  
  
Sherlock paced the lino in the kitchen, ignoring everyone and flexing his fists. A sudden wrenching crack shot through the flat, and everyone froze. The moans suddenly got louder. A minute later, gunfire erupted from the hall below the flat, barely muffled by the door.  
  
“To hell with this!” Sherlock spat, ran to his chair, and dove over the back.  
  
  
  
    John waited. Prayed and waited.  
  
Shooting hands was completely pointless and a waste of ammunition. So he waited.  
  
He could hear Molly murmuring behind him; he caught a few bars of ‘Paint it Black.’  
  
Good Lord.  
  
His moment came as a particularly disgusting zombie poked his jaw-less head through the hole the things made. He fired, and the thing flew backwards, propelled by nine millimeters of man-stopping lead. Another head, another shot, calmly squeezed off. Behind him and to his right, Molly took the next one. The Sig jumped in her hand, though, and the round impacted high above the target.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
John took care of it. “Don’t be. Let Toby go, and get a good grip with both hands.”  
  
Molly looked reluctant, but she did as she was told, and the tabby kitten zipped beneath the stairs.  
  
“He’ll be fine, Molly.”  
  
She nodded sadly as the despairing yowling began. Taking a better stance, she took another shot at the zombies trying to gain entrance, and got one with her third shot.  
  
  
  
    Sherlock popped up again with a cricket bat gripped in his hands.  
  
Sally stared hard at the tall man. “What the hell do you plan on doing, Freak?”  
  
He glared at her. “What I must.”  
  
Greg held up his hands in supplication. “Hold on a second, Holmes. What do you plan on doing with _that_?” He pointed at the cricket bat. Sherlock looked at it.  
  
“Not sure yet. I will figure it out.”  
  
”Those things aren‘t going to make it past that door. Hopefully.”  
  
”I don‘t care. I‘m helping John.”  
  
“Wait, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson held out her hands. In them was a cloth Tesco’s bag full of spare magazines. “You can take them this.”  
  
“Brilliant, Martha! You are a genius!” Sherlock kissed her on the forehead, then froze. “Oh.”  
  
“Oh....what?” Anderson looked up from staring forlornly at his hand gun.  
  
The grin that overtook Sherlock’s face could only be called a death’s head grin. “Oh. I’ve got something that might help.”  
  
  
  
    One clip.  
  
One clip each. That was all they had left between them. Once that was gone, they were fucked. Not that they weren’t already fucked, what with the door being all jacked up. The weight of the bodies already piled there put additional strain on the twisted hinges, and they just kept coming! Another zombie wormed her way into the gap and actually fell inside the door. Molly shot her quickly.  
  
“Dear God.” She dropped her empty clip and slid another home. “This is it. This is all I’ve got.”  
  
John nodded sharply. “Make ‘em count, Molly.” The moaning and groaning continued at volume, as did Tobias’s howling.  
  
His mind was calm.  
  
The door above them crashed open, and his head jerked up to stare at his flatmate.  
  
“What the bleeding hell are you doing?”  
  
Sherlock smirked. “I’ve got a idea.”  
  
“Oh, you have an idea, yeah?” John shot a head, sending brain splatter to the world outside.  
  
Sherlock clambered down, holding a cricket bat and a large glass jug of _something_ in one hand and a Tesco’s bag full of - oh thank every damned deity who was listening - clips for the guns. Hallelujah. Sherlock smiled at his friend. “Distribute these between yourselves.” He tossed the bag at John, who caught it easily. “Now, I’m not entirely sure if this is going to work, so please be ready to assist, John.” He moved to the busted door.  
  
“What the hell are you doing?”  
  
“I’m going to douse them with sulfuric acid. It’s for an experiment.”  
  
“What? You’re not actually going near them, are you?” Molly squeaked.  
  
“Not really.” Sherlock tossed the cricket bat aside and dug around in the bin next to the door. “I’ve got a spray nozzle somewhere in this mess.” He tossed pliers, a pair of wellies, a bag of...marshmallows (who put them there and how long ago was anyone’s guess), a broken fishing pole and a green...whatsit over his shoulder, then shouted in success. “Yes!” He jumped up with a black nozzle and handle in his hands. “Now I can get to work.”  
  
John shot another zombie. “Jesus. Just tell me when you are ready.” He turned to Molly, who’d separated the Browning and Sig clips on the ground next to the big guns. “Molly. Go grab Toby and go upstairs. Let everyone know what’s going on, then come back out here with Greg, okay?”  
  
Molly nodded, grabbed her cat from under the stairs and went up. “Well, that was easy. Glad someone actually listens to me without questions.”  
  
Sherlock leaned against the wooden door, his giant spray bottle of acid at the ready. John’s nerves jumped - he stood in the middle of a pile of corpses. Corpses that could come back to life at any time, for Crissakes. “Be careful, you berk.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, and looked down. “I always am. John, I’m re-” He set the nozzle aside for a second. “Wait. No. Damn it. There’s a breeze.”  
  
John tilted his head in query, then understood. “No safety equipment, and the spray could come back and hit you in the face. Not good.”  
  
“No, not good. And this is pure sulfuric acid, too. No coming back from that, I’m afraid.” He looked down at the jug in his hands.  
  
John shrugged. “Plan B, then?”  
  
Sherlock scowled. “Hold on, John. Though I won’t get the dispersal pattern I was hoping for -” He twitched as his friend sent another zombie back to the grave. “Perhaps we can still use this.”  
  
  
  
    Molly rapped hard twice on the door, and it opened. Immediately, an arm shot out, grabbed her blouse, and pulled her inside. She found herself against Greg Lestrade’s chest with his strong arms wrapped around her, and wasn’t _that_ a pleasant surprise! She...kinda just breathed in and fought not to blush like a schoolgirl. Anderson appeared behind her and grabbed her shoulders.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“Where’s John?” Sarah and Sally both asked, then glanced at each other. Sally scowled. “Well, can’t I be worried about him too?”  
  
Greg finished his hug and took her by the upper arms. “Hey. John’s fine, you’re not hurt. What’s Holmes doing?”  
  
“Being an idiot.” Sally muttered.  
  
“No.” Molly stood to her full height, refusing the men’s urging to sit down. Mrs. Hudson pushed a hot cuppa into her hand, and she thanked her with a nod. “No, Sally, he’s not being an idiot.” She let go of Toby, and the cat promptly disappeared under the couch, meeting a terrified puppy there as well. A happy yelp made her smile. “He’s got some sort of hare-brained plan, yes, but it’s not. Stupid. John wants me back out there, guys. I was just sent in here to tell you what was going on. That’s actually all I know. We are killing zombies, the door is broken (a gasp from Mrs. Hudson - “that will take forever to fix now, won’t it.”) and Sherlock’s got a plan. Greg, come with me.” She grabbed his shirtsleeve.  
  
“Me?” Greg squeaked.  
  
“Yes, you.” Molly smiled and pulled him to the door, opened it, and pulled him out to the landing.  
  
Everyone stood, flabbergasted at Molly’s...everything about that conversation...wasn’t Molly, was it?  
  
Barely a minute passed, and Sherlock burst through and ran up the stairs, muttering something about dispersal patterns and why the bloody hell it has to be breezy right now of all times...  
  
  
  
    Greg stared after the detective as he flew up the stairs after shouting happily and hugging John seconds after the D.I. and Molly stepped off them. He poked a thumb behind him. “Do you know what that was, by any chance?”  
  
John smiled his wolfish grin again. “Nope. No idea.”  
  
Molly sort of giggled. That giggle turned into a gasp as another half-clothed woman attempted entry. John shot her between the eyes.  
  
Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, hope he’s got a plan.”  
  
“Yeah, he’s got one.”  
  
Greg and Molly checked their handguns.  
  
“Do we have a good estimate of their numbers, by any chance?” John waited for the next bastard to show his face. His pocket vibrated.  
  
“Sally said that the street was full when Sarah came up. There’s less than half that now.”  
  
“Okay, that’s great.” John waited until Greg and Molly were ready, then checked his phone. Damn, Sherlock was fast.  
  
“Alright. Sherlock estimates anywhere from forty to fifty left. We’ve amassed quite the pile of dead-again-dead people, and we are to stay clear of the doorway in case of splash - well, DUH SHERLOCK!” John yelled the last part as loud as he could out of the door as Greg rolled his eyes.  
  
“Jeeze, you two are so married it’s disgusting.”  
  
John sighed. “Back up, and keep firing, soldier.”  
  
  
  
    Sherlock sat back on his heels after texting the update to John. He couldn’t help but laugh at his friend’s reaction. _I do believe I love him._ Well. There’s that. Well. Uh. Thank you, brain, for supplying _that_ bit of information in the middle of an apocalypse. He sighed and contemplated the glass jug of acid sitting next to him on the gravel.  
  
Hell. Too bad he didn’t have any hydrofluoric acid on hand...wouldn’t have been so blasted heavy. Another heavy sigh.  
  
His phone vibrated. “Perfect.” He glanced at the display.  


\------------------------------------------------

Text from: John Watson (Number Withheld)  


0938 UST  
 _Let us know when you are in position._  


\------------------------------------------------

  
He grinned. Now, if he got this right, he could (as the saying goes) kill two birds with one stone - save his friends (whom apparently didn’t need much saving after all) and get one or two experiments done. He closed his eyes and counted prime numbers until his heart settled down a bit.

He really didn’t like heights.

Then he sent a one word text to his flatmate.

 

_Ready. -SH_

He tossed the phone to the rooftop, picked up the jug, and walked it over to the edge. There was a slight ledge where John had set up the tripod for the sniper rifle; he braced his knees against it and leaned out to check where he was in relation to the front door. He scrabbled a bit to the left, then checked again. Perfect. This time, he leaned out with the jug, hoping that if he fell, he did so head first so that he wouldn’t feel it. The top was already off, so all he had to do was very...carefully...tip...it...

As he’d hoped, the acid poured straight down on the hoard.

 

 

    “Jesus CHRIST!” Greg jumped back even further as the door finally broke away from the old frame. Molly screamed, but kept her grip on her Sig.

John fired into the throng.

The first three zombies dropped from the entryway, but more were behind them. John dropped his empty clip, and Greg took over for him. Molly got a couple before John could get back into the game. Thanks to the door giving way, they got front row seats to the effects of Experiment #3584: Sulfuric Acid (H2SO4) on Necrotic Flesh (aka Zombie Flesh), an experiment Sherlock was actually waiting to perform on some skin samples he had beneath the sink.

Nothing happened at first. The crowd of zombies the liquid hit had stopped in their tracks, somehow aware that something happened (and Greg did not want to think about that too much, at all). But as they moved forward, their skin began to peel and hiss, and - ohgod... John wanted to be sick. The skin literally melted off, deep tissue burning, cracking, exposing muscle that also dissolved like fluff...and the bone, gleaming beneath blackened blood and Jesus fucking Christmas on a fat white Scottish fucking donkey they _just. Kept. COMING._

John could feel his heart ramping up the pace, triphammering within the confines of his chest. Jesus fucking Christ...

“John!” Greg screamed, nearly on the edge of hysterics. “What the flying blue fuck _are_ these things?”

“Obviously dead things, if they feel no pain.” Molly stayed matter-of-fact, but her voice quivered.

John’s mobile rang. He hit the speaker function. ”Go, Sherlock.”

“JOHN. Let it work! Don’t let any cross the threshold, but if they aren’t near it, don’t shoot them.” Sherlock sounded...excited. Hell, he would, wouldn’t he?

“I know.” He hung up.

“Don’t let them cross the threshold, but let the others live.”

Molly gasped. “John, look!” She pointed outside.

“I really don’t want to, thanks.” He did anyway.

What he saw made him grin like a fool.

 

 

    “Oh, this is brilliant!”

From his vantage point on the roof, Sherlock scribbled observations into his little notebook.

“Within seconds of contact, the dermis, epidermis, the whole skin system begins to break down due to chemical burns (caused by hydrolysis) and secondary thermal burns (caused by traumatic dehydration). The acid continues to destroy muscle and bone, eventually burning through to the brain...” He peered down as the first of his victims fell. “Ah, yes. Perfect.” He paused, then flipped the page to one he had already labeled ‘Zombie’. He began writing again.

“Upon observation, sulfuric acid has disastrous effects on the 'living dead’, as I am now inclined to refer to them as. Unfortunately, despite having the benefit of destroying the body and causing death ( _re-death...must look into different terms for 'dying again’_ ), H2SO4 is not a suitable weapon against such creatures because of what seems to be an inhibited sense of pain, or a complete lack of pain. Whether this is caused by complete brain death or compromised nerves can not be ascertained at this juncture. Further study is required before that observation can be made. Current observations lead me to believe that these are actually corpses somehow re-animated, not critically or fatally ill individuals as previously thought, which actually fits with the observations made by others since this situation began.” Sherlock sighed at this development.

He would need a lot more research.

He grabbed the empty jug and chucked it over the edge, not even bothering to see where it landed. Then he turned, his heel crunching in the gravel, and walked away.

 

 

    The last of the zombies fell when Sherlock’s glass jug crashed down on its head, cracking it open and spilling what little body fluid it had left. John lowered his gun, thanking all the deities that he didn’t have to shoot, even though he felt pretty abandoned at this point. That was his mate from the surgery, Sam Rockweiler.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Sweat dripped into his eyes. The gouge on his arm throbbed. His leg burned something terrible. Sharp bolts of pain shot through his shoulder. God, he was so tired.

“John? You okay?” Greg laid a hand on his good shoulder, which was a good thing; if the man had touched his bad one, one of them would have ended up on the ground in pain. He took a deep breath to center himself.

“Yeah, yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. Post-combat shut down, that’s all.”

“Okay.” The older man didn’t sound convinced, but he stopped touching John ( _thank you_ ) and turned to Molly. “Are you alright, Molls?”

“Um.”

John turned. He knew that tone of voice. The poor woman shook so bad the gun in her hand rattled. He walked over to her quickly, the pain in his leg ebbing a bit. “Molly. It’s fine. You are going to be fine. You are going into shock, but you are going to be fine. It’s over for now. Just relax.”

She nodded vaguely in his direction.

“Yep, okay. Time to go upstairs. Greg, stay here and keep an eye on that door. Let me get her situated up there, then we are going to work on blocking that fucking door for good.” John took the small woman by the shoulders and gently led her up the stairs, leaving the D.I. to stare after, pointing ineffectually at his chest and mouthing, “Me?”  



	8. Forging a New Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In where Greg has a story to tell, Sarah _is_ a doctor after all, and John actually knows a few languages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swearwords are from swearasaurus, so don't kill me if they don't make sense. They should.
> 
> Umm... I think we are good... oh, the pills. *shrugs* Just kill me for that, because once again, I don't know anything.

    John stared at the carnage. Bodies lay everywhere, literally everywhere. Though a number of that morning’s attackers had actually kept moving (thank GOD for that) rather than attempt entry, there were still a hundred or so dead zombies now lying in or around their building. This added to the number that they had killed the night before, making Baker Street one hell of a graveyard.  
  
Now for the clean-up and repair. John sighed. No problem there. He’s done this kind of thing before, many times. Many, many times. One of the joys of living in a war zone where your next enemy could come up behind you and bomb your arse completely up. No, the problem lay with motivating a group of civilians who’d never seen this kind of thing before (well, maybe Greg had. He’d been a cop during The Troubles, after all. But probably not on this scale, and definitely not from behind the scope of a gun.) into action. This was the first major attack by those things, but it won’t be the last. He didn’t plan on being caught unawares again.  
  
He grit his teeth and rubbed the back of his neck, formulating a plan that would cover ‘zombies being strong enough to break down a solid wood door ( _really, really should have seen that coming, come on you are losing your edge, John..._ ). Movement behind him alerted him to someone’s presence. He attempted not to twitch.  
  
“John, dear?”  
  
He turned to look at Mrs. Hudson, the small movement burning like fire up his shoulder. _Jesus, I need a pill_. “Yes, hello, Martha. How are you holding up, there?”  
  
She looked around her in disbelief and horror, but not the shocky kind that would have worried him. Well, actually, the _lack of shocky behavior_ should have been a warning sign. Damn it, is anyone in this household normal by any standards?  
  
“Oh, goodness, John, this is quite the mess, don’t you think?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah it is.” His hand went to the back of his neck again, trying to coax down the headache threatening to coalesce. “Sorry.” Wait. Why did he just -  
  
“Well, normally I would take the damages and add them to you boys’ rent, but I really don’t think that will be a problem anymore, will it?” She sighed. “I’m doing fine, John. I’ve seen the aftermath of a war. This just seems to be par for the course, it seems.”  
  
John closed his eyes. “Yeah.”  
  
“But then, you were actually in one, weren’t you, young man?” Mrs. Hudson lay her hand on his middle back, softly rubbing. “Maybe we should be the ones asking you if _you_ are alright?”  
  
It was a question, but not the big one. Thank God. He wasn’t sure how to answer that one just yet. Instead, he let out a bark that stood in for an actual laugh.  
  
“I’ll be fine.” That seemed to be his mantra for the last couple of days. And wasn’t that the crux of it, though. Because he would be fine. He was fine. There was nothing wrong with him.  
  
 _Yeah, okay, Sherlock._  
  
“I just need to fix this bloody door, then get some rest.” His fingers scratched restlessly at the base of his skull. “Just getting some material, though, is going to be a bitch.”  
  
Martha’s hand continued rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Why don’t you come upstairs for a bit, John. Sally is watching at the windows for any more of those horrid things. We will find something to fix that door with, okay?”  
  
John rocked his head back and forth, as much a concession as a nod. “Yeah. Right, okay.” He took one more look at the destruction and followed his land lady up the stairs.  
  
  
  
    “Would you rather Molly and I take apart the zombie corpse downstairs and bring the pieces up, or can we bring it up intact?” is a question that should never be uttered at a kitchen table, especially at lunchtime ( _really, is it only lunchtime_?) while everybody ate. Of course, this was not a normal get together, nor were these normal people, John was discovering.  
“Sherlock, really.” Mrs. Hudson admonished as she stood by the window.  
  
“Oh, it’s fine, Martha. That’s actually not the worst thing we’ve heard while eating or near food.” Tim waved his hand and bit into his sandwich. “Mmm, ham and swiss. My favorite. Just before all of this crap happened, I was called away from an ice cream parlor to investigate a frozen body in the meat processing plant on Waltham Park Way.” He shuddered. “I am never having an ice lolly again.”  
  
“I got a call for a triple beheading while at the meat market.” Sally smiled. “Looking at pig parts.”  
  
Sherlock shoveled a forkful of salad into his mouth and gestured with the utensil. “I remember that case. It was the butcher from that very meat market, upset about losing his job and not being able to care for his wife, children, and his mistress, so he killed his former boss and his family. Very gruesome, not very interesting, save for the gold necklace I’d found in their son’s hamper, which led me to the killer.” He looked thoughtful. “I had wondered why you had drawn a connection between the exposed vertebrae of the wife’s neck to pig knuckles. Though that seeming non-sequitur also assisted my process.”  
  
Sarah blinked. “Well, then.”  
  
“I’ve actually eaten while performing an autopsy. There’s nothing quite like eating a processed meat sandwich from the vending machine while examining a diseased liver.” Molly poked Sherlock in the ribs with her elbow. “That one actually made you sick, Sherlock.”  
  
“Wait, something broke through that brick wall of yours?” Sally exclaimed as the man in question cast a disgruntled look at the pathologist.  
  
“I just couldn’t believe you would actually eat such a god awful excuse for a slice of so called ‘meat’, Molly Hooper.”  
  
“That’s why they call it a meat product, Sherlock. Just because they make it from meat doesn’t necessarily mean that it _is_ meat.” John chuckled.  
  
Greg lifted his coffee mug. “I’ll drink to that.” He did, then held up his empty hand. “I got one for you. I was still with Vice, and nearly everyone in my department was called to a suspicious house fire with multiple victims. Turns out it was one of the many meth kitchens around London. Those things tend to just spontaneously combust if someone so much as breathes on them wrong. Hell, with all of those chemicals lying around....but anyway, so we got there after the fire brigade does, and I get to watch as one by one, the victims get pulled out by gurney to the ambulances waiting in the wings. Ten in all, all so wrecked on meth that they probably didn’t even know what went wrong or what was even going on. So I’m watching this procession of charred bodies, and my mate at the time, Carlton, calls me on my personal cell and asks if I wanted to got to a bar-be-que with him after work got off.” He smirked as the whole table groaned. “Yeah. That was pretty much my reaction, too. God, I could barely eat, but that chicken was so good!”  
  
John sighed. The pill he took was finally kicking in, and he was feeling pretty good. “Try eating a linguine and tomato sauce MRE after patching together a IED victim who walked onto the base holding his intestines in his hands.”  
  
Sherlock actually gagged a little. Just a little, though. He had a much stronger stomach than that, but just the visual alone... “See? This is why I don’t eat on cases!” Everyone laughed.  
  
“No, you just forget to eat, just like you forget to sleep and forget to let me sleep.” John quipped. “Oh, and Greg, if you ever want a real treat, try eating chicken after treating a third degree burn that covered thirty percent of a man’s back after an electrical mishap.”  
  
“No thank you. How did you ever eat?”  
  
“Not sure, now that I think about it.”  
  
Sarah laughed again. “Okay, guys. You want a pissing contest about gory, here’s one for you. I was still working at University College Hospital, and I’d just gotten back from vacation with my family out in the country. They own a dairy and beef cattle farm out there, and I’d gone back home to help out with the year’s butchering. The night I go back to work in the A &E department, we had a multiple car accident on the A13 with multiple severe to life-threatening injuries and many victims. I saw pretty much every bloody muscle group in open air that night. It was almost like being a butcher. I couldn’t touch red meat for a year after that.”  
  
“Were there any traumatic amputations?” Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, extremely interested. Sally snorted at him, and Tim got up to replace Mrs. Hudson at the window.  
  
“Yes, there were, Sherlock.”  
  
“De-gloving of any extremities?” Molly piped up.  
  
Sarah stared at her. “A couple.”  
  
John smirked. “Flail chest with pulmonary contusions and sub-Q air?”  
  
Everyone looked at John except Molly, who nodded. Sarah laughed. “Ok, show-off. We all know you worked in a trauma bay before. Yes.”  
  
“What is that?” Sherlock cocked his head in inquiry.  
  
“What is what?”  
  
“The ‘flail chest’.”  
  
Sarah twirled her spoon between two fingers as she spoke. “‘Flail chest’ is a term we use when there are so many ribs broken that the structural integrity of the chest wall is compromised. A section breaks away and moves independently of the rest of the rib cage, usually acting opposite of normal respiration movement.”  
  
“And the other thing?”  
  
“The pulmon-”  
  
“No, the sub Q air?”  
  
John smiled. “Air or gas trapped in the subcutaneous layer of skin, is all. It’s also known as subcutaneous emphysema or tissue emphysema, 'sub Q air' is just a quick medical term for it. It’s caused one of two ways;" Here John held up two fingers and ticked them off, "trauma that traps air, and infections that trap gases.”  
  
Greg listened, fascinated. How the hell are his friends so god damned brilliant? And where did he find these people? He tapped his fingers on the table. “How can you tell if someone has it? Are there tests?”  
  
“CT scans will show it, but you can actually feel it under the skin,” Molly piped up. “It sort of feels crackly, like crisped rice under your fingers when you touch it.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes brightened. “Interesting.”  
  
“You might even run into it on one of those bodies out there.” Sarah smiled. “It can be caused by gunshot wounds... although that’s more around the neck and chest, not the head.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure my training took over a couple times and I aimed for the chest,” Greg muttered, munching on a carrot.  
  
“Fair enough.” Sarah looked at Sherlock and Molly, wondering when the hell the strange detective had begun...not being rude to the girl. “As for your earlier question, one zombie whole, the rest must be in easy to carry parts that will NOT come back to life. How does that sound?”  
  
Both of them nodded vigorously. They looked so eager, Greg could swear they were children. And right then, the way the doctors interacted with them...would that make John and Sarah the parents in this scenario? Greg mentally smacked his forehead. God, he was not going to think about that. EVER.  
  
  
  
    Getting everyone to assist in the clean-up was much easier than John had anticipated it would be. Wearing as much protective clothing as possible, the men (including Sherlock; whomever said that man wasn’t handy in an apocalypse could go hang) did the dirty work. Sherlock had even crafted a do-it-yourself protective over-shirt lined in plastic bags for John and Anderson, the only ones with actual open wounds.  
  
Ha.  
  
Speaking of which... the inevitable happened.  
  
“Greg, can you- OW god damn _fucking hell_!” John dropped the body he had over his good shoulder and backed off the growing pile of bodies, ripping off both gloves and over-shirt. Sherlock looked over from where he’d been studying the decay of corpses. He wasn’t sure what was happening - it wasn’t John’s shoulder, was it? If it was... He ran over to where his friend stood, bent over his right arm, muttering (oh goodie!) in Pashto again.  
  
“Ghwal ookh-raa, _kharbachiya goddamn shit_ buggering hell fucking da dammay zo-”  
  
“John.” Must be his arm.  
  
“ _Sheep-shaggin’_ fanny bawz, fucking tore this son of a father-loving whore _right_ the hell open-”  
  
Oh. Three languages. He didn’t quite recognize ‘fanny bawz’ at all. “John, let me see.”  
  
Now Greg and Anderson were there at his side too, with Sally keeping a weather eye on the road.  
  
“You okay, John?” They asked at the same time.  
  
“Jode sus madres, fucking _hell_ this hurts!”  
  
Four! That was definitely Spanish, most likely from Mexico...where would he have learned - oh, yes, he served with Americans when he was in Afghanistan, of course. “John.”  
  
From what he could see of John’s arm, the detective could tell it was bad. Blood dripped from his fingers onto the ground ( _pavement pock-marked from the sulfuric acid, but no danger remained from it since he and Molly poured solvent..._ ). “We need to get you inside, away from the virus. Now.” John glared up at the taller man. Sherlock could tell ( _hell, anyone with half a brain cell and a heart_ ) could tell that he was in agony. “Let’s go, John.”  
  
John jerked his head curtly. “Yeah, sure, mother fucking god damned da spi zo ba’ heid.”  
  
“Could you possibly speak in the Queen’s English, John?”  
  
“Ve a chuparle el peson ha un chango.”  
  
“Yes, and a lovely day to be had, too.”  
  
Greg burst out laughing. Sherlock glared at him. “I suppose you know what he said?”  
  
“Yeah.” Greg’s lips curled into a smile. “Hope you like monkeys.”  
  
  
  
    John pulled the first aid kit to the foot of the couch as he sat down hard. “God damn it. There should be some rubbing alcohol in there, too, Sherlock. Grab a towel or three while you are at it, won’t you? Fuckin’ _buggering_ hell balls, this hurts!”  
  
Sherlock walked out of the lower bathroom with the requested items in hand. “Seems you are back to speaking something I can understand.”  
  
John hissed as he pulled at his button-up. “Puta. Oh, shut it, Sherlock.”  
  
“Can you get that off by yourself, or do you need assistance?”  
  
John looked up, and sighed out an curse. "Actually,” he looked hard at his arm, “I think one of the stitches is caught in the dried blood and fabric. I might need some help.”  
  
The taller man folded to his knees on the carpet next to the arm of the couch and peered at the offending shirt arm. “Perhaps a quick tug...?”  
  
Sarah came in from the kitchen with a bowl of hot water and flannel as Sherlock pinched the material between his thumb and forefinger and pulled up. She nearly dropped the bowl in shock as John let loose yet another string of invective.  
  
“Good Lord, John. You are nothing if not inventive.”  
  
The blush that covered John’s face was only made worse by the paleness caused by the intense pain.  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “That was nothing. You should have been outside. At least this time it was entirely in English.”  
  
“Here. Let me do this quick." Sarah dunked the flannel into the bowl, and slopped it onto his arm, startling a hiss from his lungs. “Best way to deal with an injury like this is to soak the area to loosen the dried blood." John sighed with relief at the warmth of the cloth.  
  
After about five minutes, they were able to remove the blood-soaked shirt. John took one look at the re-opened wound and whistled low on his breath. “Holy shit, I really did a number on it, didn’t I?"  
  
Sherlock glared at the ragged thing as if it personally did this to his John. ( _His_ John. _Oh dear, shut up, brain!_ ) Every single stitch but one - no, wait, all twelve, the smallest one did tear a bit - were torn out of the surrounding tissue. He winced in sympathy. He’d torn enough stitches on still tender wounds that he knew exactly what John was going through.  
  
“What happened, exactly, John?” Sarah set the bowl aside, the bloody flannel floating in the pale red water, while she rooted around in the kit for the suture kits and forceps.  
  
“To be honest? I think I simply forgot about the damned thing and twisted my arm just the right way. Or wrong way, I guess it depends on how you look at it.” He chuckled darkly. “It just managed to be the perfect circumstance to do this.” He peered at the wound. “God damn, this is going to scar.”  
  
“Well, it’ll just add to your collection and your charm.” Sarah and John shared a soft smile between them, and Sherlock tried not to scowl.  
  
MY John.  
  
( _Oh, for Pete’s sake. SHUT UP BRAIN. That is a bit...not good_.)  
  
Sherlock accidentally-on-purpose bumped John’s right arm (but softly, he didn’t jostle it too badly, he didn’t want to hurt him, just get his attention on him.)  
  
(Mine)  
  
( _SHUT UP_ )  
  
“Fu- Sherlock!” John paused, then nodded. “Yes. Fine. Let’s do this.”  
  
Sherlock held up the lidocaine he’d pulled out of the kit in the bath.  
  
“Nope.” John shook his head.  
  
Sherlock stared at the man in shock. _Are you kidding me?_ “John.”  
  
“Nuh-uh.”  
  
“John. This is no time for manly pride.”  
  
John huffed and smirked at the detective. “No, Sherlock. Get me an ice pack and three paracetamol.”  
  
“John.”  
  
John pressed his lips together and huffed again.  
  
Sherlock waggled the syringe between his fingers.  
  
John narrowed his eyes.  
  
Sherlock tilted his head until he looked at his friend sideways and through that insane fringe of his.  
  
John didn’t move.  
  
Sherlock didn’t flinch.  
  
“Oh, for the love of money. You're _married,_ I swear! John!” Sarah shoved the flannel into his hands, bloody water splattering his grey tee shirt. “I’ll get the ice. But you are getting your tramadol- don’t give me that look, John.”  
  
“I’d rather have the morphine, actually.” John's voice hung in the air, cold and soft.  
  
Sherlock stared at John. The man hung his head in defeat, the lines on his face making him look more haggard with pain and tiredness. The detective went into John’s wing of his mind palace and found no trace of ‘Oh, by the way, my flatmate has a controlled substance that I used to abuse in the flat.' He suddenly knew what the former soldier felt when they’d come home to Lestrade’s drugs bust- _'You? Really?'_. Sarah only nodded and left the room, leaving Sherlock to his devices. He continued to watch his blogger. _‘I should say something. Isn't that what is done here? Things are said? I‘ve got to say something. But what?‘_  
  
“John, I-”  
  
“Sherlock. It’s fine.” He flapped his left hand in Sherlock’s direction. “Unless you scarpered with my morphine pills. Then I might have to kill you with a spoon. It will not be pretty.” He smiled at his friend, the same smile he shared with Sarah a bit before.  
  
Ah. Something...oh. Something only _they_ shared. Oh. Scars. Oh, _Sarah_... Sherlock filed this away for another time. In the meantime, he tried on a smile for his suffering friend, for John.  
  
“Are they for your shoulder? Yes, of course they are. I wasn’t aware you took that level of pain killer. But then, morphine is actually rather common, but I would think they would have given you some sort of codeine solution.”  
  
“Yeah. They did. I tried them for a week, and they worked not one damned bit. So, with my input, they put me back on the morphine. Thirty milligram extended release tablets. Normally don’t need them, I use them when the pain gets too bad.” He sort of shrugged with his right shoulder, and bit off a hiss. "Well, the pain in my arm? Bad."  
  
Sherlock peered at John. “Your shoulder, too. Obvious. Are you set?”  
  
“I have a good supply, grabbed as much as I could when I went to St. Bart’s with Molly.” He returned the look. “I didn’t tell you for obvious reasons.”  
  
“Because I’m an addict. Yes, John, I know.” Sherlock felt like a small part of him was breaking into an even smaller part. John didn’t trust him, even though he’d proven (on an earlier case where they’d had to go undercover in a drug ring) that he was clean and would stay clean.  
  
“No, because I didn’t, well...” John sighed, and shook his head. “It’s me. My shoulder is real, Sherlock. You know that. Not many others know how bad it can get. I mean, they’ve seen the scar, obviously, but they don’t know about the pain. I don’t want them to.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him, searching, so he took a deep breath and continued.  
  
“I don’t - I. Well.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not a fucking cripple, Sherlock. No one is going to treat me like one. Not again.”  
  
“No one said you are, John.”  
  
“Exactly, and that’s how it’s going to stay.” John looked hard into Sherlock’s grey eyes.  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
Sarah returned, and handed the bottle of pills to John, and the ice pack to Sherlock. “Hold this.”  
  
The taller man watched as his friend popped two of the tiny pills and swigged his tea back in one gulp and laughed a bit, at his own expense it seemed.  
  
“This dose will knock my arse out, which is good because I wrenched my bad shoulder when I dropped that bastard.” No one needed to know about what transpired earlier that morning. Well, Sherlock might already know, but that's par for the course. “Have Greg keep an eye on things. I think it’s safe to burn the bodies, seems if it was airborne that we’d all be mindless zombies by now, yeah? Greg’ll know what to do about getting fuel.” He blinked, his eyelids already beginning to droop from the pain. “Sherlock, you might want to go grab your body now.”  
  
Sherlock smiled tightly, squeezed John’s hands ( _he’d yet to let go, that was...odd. He hadn’t noticed_ ) and left.  
  
  
  
    They were busy for a good two hours, taking care of the bodies. They even pulled the bodies from the ends of the street from the night before. Greg managed to find a hose to siphon petrol out of the various cars on Baker Street and torched the huge pile. Of course, he let Sherlock choose the choicest bodies from the collection first.  
  
After Molly cut and quartered the parts and the zombie experiments were ready to be moved, Sally and Tim volunteered to help the small pathologist out while Greg and Sherlock stayed outside to keep watch on the door. The two men sat side by side on the front step, hand guns out and ready.  
  
After a minute, Greg shifted. “Sherlock?”  
  
“Yes, Greg.”  
  
The D.I. sighed. “I know you’ve got a pack of cigarettes on you.”  
  
Sherlock grinned. “Price of passage: one thing from your childhood. Something I don’t already know, and couldn’t figure out on my own.”  
  
Greg cocked his head, considering. The need for nicotine won out. “Done.”  
  
Cigarettes lit, Greg indulged Sherlock in a story.  
  
“When I was around thirteen, I decided that I didn’t have to go to school anymore. Simple as that. Couldn’t be bothered with it anymore, so I quit. Walked out of the school, and walked out my home with a duffle, the clothes on my back, and 250 quid. My family is Gypsy, so that’s pretty much par for the course for them, so they didn’t try to stop me - not one of them have passed their A-levels, and my mum barely even went to school. I got a job at a local grocer and a half-arsed flat above a pub that I frequented. I was one hell of a punk, Sherlock. I smoked pot, drank until I couldn’t see straight, and got laid pretty much whenever I wanted with whomever I wanted. Girls, guys, didn’t matter.” He let out a stream of smoke into the sky. “It wasn’t a bad life, but I felt like I wanted more. It wasn’t until I was seventeen when that kick in the arse happened.”  
  
Sherlock watched the older man carefully.  
  
“I’d been walking home after visiting a different pub with some mates. Middle of winter. Drunk as a fool. I was cold as hell, but my grungy little one room flat at least had walls. Suddenly, a man grabbed me from behind and held a gun to my head. It’d happened so fast I couldn’t do anything about it. He turned me around to face the two coppers who were chasing him. I can remember this part clearly. One was young and ginger, and the other was probably about ten years older and blonde. Apparently they’d been running after the guy for a while; they were wet with sweat and the bastard holding me stank of it. I could feel the cold metal of the gun, I could hear the younger copper talking down the runner - “Just let go of the kid, it isn’t worth it mate, let ‘em go” - and my mind was running a mile a minute, screaming at me to do something, just do anything at all, so I started talking, imitating the ginger cop.” Greg took another drag of the cigarette. “I don’t even remember what I said, shit, Sherlock, I was so scared...All I know is the man finally let me go and took off running again, I dropped to the ground, and the ginger followed him. Blondie, hell, his name was Peterson or something like that, he called dispatch and asked for back up, letting them know where we were. He turned to where I sat on the ground, just breathing, trying to calm down, and he asked me if I was alright. Hell, I didn’t know what else to say other than ‘yeah, I’ve had worse nights at the pub’. My buzz was gone, but I was still compromised. Sirens filled the night and the copper pulled me aside as two squad cars roared down the road right past us. A third pulled to a stop next to us. Peterson told me to hop in, that I was taking a ride to the Yard to give a statement and then they would take me home.” Greg chuckled. “God, that scared me worse than having a gun pointed at me because I had a nickel bag of weed and a bennie on me!”  
  
Sherlock laughed.  
  
“I gave my statement, then broke down and pulled everything out of my pockets and threw them onto the interviewing constable’s desk. He just laughed in my face and told me I could keep the pot, they had bigger problems than a pothead punk. He kept the bennie, though.” He stubbed out the cigarette and flicked it towards the pyre burning near them. “God, that reeks. Anyway, the next day I applied to a school to finish my A-levels and got clean, then went on to Uni, where I got my degrees in Criminal Justice and Criminal Psychology. When it came to the Academy, though, I ran into financial issues. The Army solved that for me. I went in for two years, hopped out with enough money to go to the Academy, and here I am today. Why? Because what I saw that night? Those coppers, the beat cops? I wanted to do that.”  
  
Sherlock cocked his head. “Do you ever regret it?”  
  
The inspector smiled softly. “Sometimes, after three days of no sleep, hellish coffee, and no leads, I regret switching from Vice to MET, but never have I regretted becoming a cop. I think part of it is people like you, Sherlock.”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“When I picked your drug-ravaged, starving body out of the gutter, I listened to your mad rambling and sent you to an A&E to get treated, then gave you a ride back to that horrid flat on Montague Street. Figured that was it. But I kept thinking about that verbal vomit of facts and observations, and I kept thinking _‘if that kid can do that while so fuckin’ wrecked he can’t even lift his head out of a gutter, what would he be like sober? God, what a waste of potential there’_. I thought I’d never see you again outside of an obituary, really. But that same week, you showed up to a crime scene flying so fuckin’ high I thought you were going to schitz out on me, and you solved the bleeding case in twenty minutes. I knew then that I had to try. I had to save you. Not just your mind, but you.”  
  
Sherlock stared.  
  
Greg blushed. “I tend to attract the stray dogs and cats of society. I guess, because I used to be one, really. Dimmock was like me, a skittish drunk punk with potential. You were a strung out genius begging for an outlet for your manic mind. Sally was a bright young beat cop with potential but no way to move up because of her race and gender.” He closed his eyes, suddenly hit with a guilt so intense he couldn’t breathe. “I don’t even know where Dimmock is right now. He was on duty when it went down. Jesus.”  
  
And just like that, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade found himself crying. Not a gross sobbing, not a hiccuping scream, just tears streaming down his stubbled cheeks. He closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands.  
  
Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He didn’t _do_ emotional. He didn’t do _emotions_.  
  
“Sherlock. It’s okay. You just sitting there helps.”  
  
He jerked his head up to see Sally. She sighed. “It’s okay, really.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, still looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car.  
  
After a minute, Greg sat back up, eyes red and puffy but the tears were all dried up. He nodded his head, whispered something Sherlock couldn’t hear ( _it could have been 'thanks’_ ) and walked back inside.  
  
Anderson wandered out. “Hey, Freak. Sarah wants you inside.”  
  
As Sherlock closed the ravaged and broken door behind him, he felt something...different.  
  
Somehow, the term 'freak’ coming from Anderson sounded less of a slur as it did an endearment. And Sally had actually called him by his first name.  
  
He smiled.  
  
  
  
         Sherlock found Sarah on the couch, cradling John’s head in her lap. He was sound asleep. The battery/solar powered radio cycled through stations, finding hissing static on every one of them.  
  
“Sometimes I wish England had an Emergency Alert System.” Sarah murmured.  
  
“We do, actually. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work at all. They tested it last year. It failed miserably.” He walked to the coffee table and flicked the radio off.  
  
“Have you heard from your brother?”  
  
“Not since last night.” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Has it really only been two days since the zombies began showing up around Baker Street?”  
  
John snuffled a bit, and grasped the afghan draped over him with a weak right hand.  
  
“How is he doing?” Sherlock looked at the bright white gauze wrapped around his flatmate’s arm.  
  
“I had to clean the edges of the wound up a bit, so thank God for the morphine. John was pretty well out of it by the time I got to stitching, so he didn’t feel a thing.” She patted one of the bean bags. “Sit down.”  
  
He did.  
  
“I sent those two out there so you and Greg can get some rest. You all have been running on fumes and coffee for a while now.” She held up a finger before he could even open his mouth to protest that hello body is transport for the mind. “Don’t argue. You know, as well as everyone else around here, that you, John, Molly and Greg are the most important people in this flat. You all need your rest. Greg went to tell Molly exactly that.”  
  
Sherlock grabbed her hand out of the air with both of his. “No, Sarah. We are not the important ones. John will tell you this. We are the brawn and the brains of this new world, yes, but we are not the important ones. Well, I'm important. I'm smarter than all of you put together." He shook his head a bit to get back on track. "If it weren’t for you and the others, we would all be dead or starved or insane or something. We need to be cared for because we forget to do it ourselves. Have you seen us at work? Really working? No, of course not. Greg survives on coffee and cigarettes. I survive on tea and nicotine; food slows me down and sleep is a waste. John...well, he'd possibly survive on his own in this new world, but Greg and I? We’d be dead before the week is out. No, if anyone is important, it’s our support staff.” He laid a chaste kiss on her outstretched index finger. He did not dare try to parse the reason he just said all of that, or did what he did... something was definitely wrong with him.  
  
Sarah smiled. “Alright, Sherlock. Go to sleep, you idiot.” She closed her eyes.  
  
  
  
    Sherlock had almost drifted off when he felt John’s right arm drop onto his shoulder and slide down to his chest, where it gripped the purple silk of his dress shirt. He looked up, and met Sarah’s eyes.  
  
She smiled. “It’s fine.”  
  
Sherlock smiled back, a small movement of lips and cheek muscles that normally wouldn’t even count, really. “Thank you.”


	9. When Things Get Rough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets better. More zombies show up. Sherlock texts Mycroft. The feces hits the flagellum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is from "Julius Caesar" by Shakespeare.

    A quiet murmur. A rustle. A muffled curse.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Jus’ tryin’ to find the bottle. G’back t’ sleep.”  
  
A pause in the quiet.  
  
“Do you need another dose, John?”  
  
“Jus’ one pill, Sh’lock.”  
  
A snuffle from the couch.  
  
“Are you positive?”  
  
Scratching noises. A sigh.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
  
  
Ping.  
  
The light from his mobile illuminated his face where he sat under the staircase in the flat, the only place he could find peace and solitude. The dust bunnies didn't bother him as much as the rather...large sized spider that he was too afraid to kill. As long as it stayed on its side of the hideaway... _no no no stay there STAY AWAY_...  
  
\-----------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 1903 UST  
 _How are things, petit frère? - MH_  
\-----------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Sherlock smirked. The spider stayed on its side.  
  
 _Good. - SH_  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\-----------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 1904 UST  
 _I have everyone’s mobiles set up on the military’s emergency satellite service now. I will attempt to keep power to Baker Street running as long as possible, to ensure your continued comfort, Sherlock. - MH_  
\-----------------------------------------------------  
  
  
He groaned, and sneezed. Ack. Dust. Perfect, but for how long?  
  
 _It’s appreciated, but I’m not entirely worried about my ‘comfort’, as it were. We need the power for the equipment and the freezers. See to it. - SH_  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\-----------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 1906 UST  
 _I will do what I can. - MH_  
\-----------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Egads.  
  
 _Do you have scientists with you at this moment? - SH_  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\------------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 1908 UST  
 _Yes, we do. They are working as hard, if not harder, as you and Miss Hooper are, I assure you. - MH_  
\------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Then what the hell are we still doing here? Sherlock wanted nothing more than to strangle his older brother right at this moment. Damn it.  
  
 _Do they have access to the ‘zombie’ virus? Do they have access to the same equipment that we do? Do they actually have a bloody laboratory that they are working out of?_  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\------------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 1908 UST  
 _Yes to all. - MH_  
\------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
 _Then get us the hell out of this place at ONCE, Mycroft. We are not needed. I am not needed. - SH_  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\------------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 1912 UST  
 _I cannot do that at this time. - MH_  
\------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Sherlock nearly threw his phone, but settled for biting it in frustration.  
  
I mean it, _Mycroft. - SH_  
  
 _GET - SH_  
  
 _US - SH_  
  
 _OUT - SH_  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\------------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 1918 UST  
 _I can make no promises, brother. - MH_  
\------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
“Cunt.”  
  
 _Does Anthea still suck your cock every time you don’t eat dessert? - SH_  
  
  
  
    Sally is at the table.  
  
It’s nearly midnight.  
  
“I can’t sleep, Freak.”  
  
Sherlock shows her how to escape handcuffs.  
  
She shows him the way Dimmock showed her.  
  
‘Note to self: Dimmock’s method much easier on the wrist structure.’  
  
  
  
    John is not in the flat.  
  
“Molly told me that if I didn’t make her coffee that she would shove me off a cliff and steal my job. Not that it’s that much of a threat anymore. I mean, who needs a forensics team for a mob of zombies? ‘Ah, yes, I can tell by the footprint that the man was missing a foot before he ate Mr. Harper’s intestines’, right? John’s on the roof with his ‘baby’ again.” Anderson flicks the ON switch of the coffee maker and leans back against the counter. Sherlock pokes at a slice of flesh in a petri dish with a scalpel.  
  
“Is that what he called it?”  
  
“I’m pretty sure he’s named it ‘Hannah’ or something like that.”  
  
Sherlock looked up.  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
“Really.”  
  
“I swear, we should hold a ceremony for the two. Not sure where we’d find a ring, though.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled deep in his chest. “I now pronounce you man and gun. You may shoot the bride.”  
  
The resulting laughter brings them to their knees.  
  
  
  
Ping.  
  
Sherlock picks up his mobile.  
  
\------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 0045 UST  
 _That was not necessary. ‘Anthea’ is not that sort of personal assistant, and you know it, Sherlock. What would Mummy say about your language? - MH_  
\------------------------------------------------  
  
  
He closed his eyes, a pang of regret and pain forming in his chest. Mother. Oh God, he forgot about his own bloody mother in this chaos.  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 0045 UST  
 _I am terribly sorry. I did not mean to bring her up. I am not certain of her whereabouts at this time. My last contact with her was last month, and she was in Northern Michigan. Doing what, I am not at liberty to discuss. - MH_  
\-------------------------------------------------  
  
  
 _Does that mean you don’t know what she was doing in the Colonies? - SH_  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\-------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 0046 UST  
 _I have no idea. Perhaps studying soil samples from Lake Superior? - MH_  
\-------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Sherlock laughed, and sipped at his cup of coffee.  
  
 _Anyway, why are you not able to get us out of London? - SH_  
  
 _I would think it would be as simple as procuring a helicopter and landing somewhere near Baker Street. I do not suggest Marylebone, that seems to be over-run at the moment. - SH_  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\-------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 0049 UST  
 _If only it were that simple. - MH_  
\-------------------------------------------------  
  
  
 _Mycroft. This is you we are talking about. It is that simple. - SH_  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\-------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 0110 UST  
 _I am afraid not. - MH_  
\--------------------------------------------------  
  
  
 _Tell me. - SH_  
  
 _NOW. - SH_  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 0120 UST  
 _Central London has been declared a Black Zone. - MH_  
\--------------------------------------------------  
  
  
 _What is that? What is a ‘Black Zone’, Mycroft? It doesn’t sound good, that is certain. - SH_  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\---------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 0121 UST  
 _A black zone designates areas of the map that have been completely abandoned. No one goes in, nothing comes out. - MH_  
\----------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\----------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 0122 UST  
 _I am so sorry, Sherlock. I wish I could help you. I should have gotten you out when I had the opportunity. - MH_  
\----------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Ping.  
  
\----------------------------------------------------  
Text from Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
To Sherlock Holmes  
Received @ 0122 UST  
 _Good luck. God save us all. - MH_  
\----------------------------------------------------  
  
  
  
  
    “Hey. Freak. Are you ok?”  
  
Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of one shaking, pale hand while he clutches the iPhone in a death grip in his other hand.  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
“Y-yes. Yes, Sally. I’m fine. Must have been something I ate ear-”  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
He felt himself begin to shiver, and leaned against the cool porcelain of the toilet where he knelt. “Ill. I feel ill, Sally.”  
  
“I’ll get you a bag of ice or something, okay? Stay here.” She turned and disappeared from the doorway to the bathroom.  
  
Sherlock felt a tear running down his face.  
  
Sally returned to find the detective slumped against the sink, crying silently. She went to her knees next to him, and he handed her his phone. “We’ve been abandoned, Sally. And I don’t know what to do now.”  
  
Sally set the phone down and gathered him into her arms. “We survive. That’s what we’re doing now, and that’s what we’ll continue doing.”  
  
  
  
    Sherlock looked at the time on his phone, then cross-referenced on his laptop.  
  
0356\. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. All of his tears dried up, but his eyeballs felt scratchy. Sally finally passed out on John’s chair. He pulled the lighter afghan off of the back of the couch, careful not to disturb Sarah, and draped it over the black woman. He blinked.  
  
Time to go check on their guardians of the night. He chuckled. First, though, he makes a quick stop by 221A.  
  
“Oh, come in, Sherlock! You look like you haven’t slept a wink since this began!”  
  
“I have, Mrs. Hudson, I assure you." He paused in the sitting room as Martha worked in the kitchen, unsure how he wanted to phrase it. "I am afraid I haven’t the best news to give.”  
  
The older woman handed him a cup of tea, which he accepted a bit blindly.  
  
“Sherlock, dear, your brother already called me, after he told you the news. It’s horrible, but we will make it.” She took two large thermoses out of the upper cabinet over her sink and filled them to the brim from two separate teapots. “Unfortunately, the news is making it very hard to sleep. Well, that and the boys playing with their guns, right?”  
  
Crack-BOOM!  
  
Pop! Pop-pop-pop-Crack-BOOM!  
  
“John and Gregory seem to be right at home out there, don’t they?”  
  
“Hm?” Sherlock looked up from staring into the cup of tea. “Ah, yes, they do.”  
  
She sat down after screwing the caps onto the thermoses. The silence wrapped around them, bringing with it the warmth and comfort that seems to surround Mrs. Hudson, a sense of...home. Sherlock closed his eyes for just a moment. A moment that stretched on forever. Finally, he just...breathed.  
  
“Would you like to help me take these to the boys, Sherlock?”  
  
“Hu-what?” He stared at her for a moment. “Oh. The tea, right. Yes. Yes, I will.”  
  
  
  
    Greg is sitting just behind the makeshift barrier that he and Anderson made out of the broken door. He had his mobile out and on speaker as he took shots at the oncoming zombies.  
  
“Yeah, they pretty much cleared out after that last volley, down here at least-” He turned as Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson approached from behind him. Gladstone yipped happily and ran to the detective’s side. He picked the pup up and scratched him behind the ears, which turned the bulldog into a puddle of wriggling, panting goo. “Hello, Holmes, Mrs. Hudson.” He turned back to the phone. “I don’t know what else you can see from your vantage point, there, John.”  
  
Over the mobile’s small speaker, Sherlock heard a rustle.  
  
“Yeah, I don’t see too much up here. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any more coming. I’ll keep an eye out while you take a break.”  
  
“Hello, John.”  
  
“Hey, Sherlock. Can’t sleep?”  
  
“Not really.” Sherlock set Gladstone down as Martha came forward and handed Greg the thermos.  
  
“Now, I do have cups in the flat if you’d be looking for one...”  
  
“Oh, no, that’s fine, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll just drink it straight from this. Ta.” Greg opened the cap and sipped. “Ow, hot, damn it all to hell and back, should have thought about that. Gah.” He set the thing aside. “I’ll let it cool for a while before taking another swig, how about that?”  
  
Sherlock chuckled. “That may be wise, Greg.”  
  
The cop smiled. “Yeah.”  
  
“Say, Sherlock, when you get a moment, can you come up here?” John’s voice sounded so different, coming from such a tiny speaker. Sherlock leaned down towards the phone.  
  
“I had planned on it, after checking things out here.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
“How are things out here, Greg? I can see that the threat has died down a bit.” Sherlock peered out into the night, the weak light from the few working street-lights casting an amber tint to the air. Without the city’s usual ambiance, though, it was an empty blessing. Sort of like a box of matches in a mine system after a collapse. He shook his head violently to rid himself of the imagery.  
  
“Well, we were actually busy a while ago.”  
  
“I could hear.”  
  
“Yeah, well. It calmed down again.”  
  
Sherlock could just make out the charred remains of the funeral pyre further down the road. Twenty or so more added to the mess there.  
  
“Lovely. How much longer would you like to stay out here?”  
  
“Hard to say, really. I got a few hours of sleep earlier. I think I may be good for another few hours yet.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “Very well then. I will check on you then.” Sherlock turned his attention on Greg’s phone. “John, we are going to be on our way up.”  
  
“We? Who’s we?”  
  
“Oh, dearie, I’m going to brave those metal stairs and bring you some nice hot tea and come visit with you.” Mrs. Hudson picked up the other thermos.  
  
A sigh, then - “Alright. Just, for Pete’s sake, Martha, be careful coming up here. We can’t have you breaking your hip or leg out here, not now. I only have so many supplies, and nothing much for broken bones.”  
  
  
  
    Despite her bad hip, she managed to get out the window with only minimal assistance from Sherlock.  
  
“This is good practice just in case we need to leave fast, isn’t it, Sherlock?”  
  
He nodded as he levered and squirmed out of John’s ( _Greg’s/Tim’s room, got to remember that now_ ) window onto the fire escape. “I believe...so...oh.” He looked down at the alleyway below, then up. “Ah. Yes.” He held out his hand to touch Martha’s lower back. “Okay, straight up, and watch your step, Martha.” He got right behind her and followed her up, making sure she didn’t fall or trip on anything. It was a very good thing that her sister had bought her trainers last Christmas, or this trip would not be happening at all. They made their way slowly up the rickety contraption.  
  
“We’re here, John!” Mrs. Hudson shouted as she navigated the lip of the roof. Suddenly, the soldier was right there, holding a hand out for her.  
  
“Jesus, Martha. You need to be careful!”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry about me, sweetie. You are so nice to me. What have I done to deserve such nice young men to help me out at my age, hmm?” She smiled at John as she made it over the lip, and Sherlock followed right behind.  
  
“Come on over and welcome to my humble sniper position.”  
  
Sherlock could hear the smile in his friend’s mid-tone voice, and as they made their way over, he whispered into John’s ear. “Do you know what ‘black zone’ means?”  
  
The sharp intake of breath was all he needed to know.  
  
“Yeah. Mycroft texted me about ten minutes ago. That’s why I was on the phone with Greg. I guess he said that he’d tell the others.”  
  
“Sally already knows.” Sherlock looked down. “She was there when Mycroft told me.” He didn’t tell John about how he’d broken down in the woman’s arms, and how she’d held him, stroking his hair and whispering that it’d be alright. He especially didn’t tell John that he’d kissed her. Just once. On the cheek. But he’d kissed Sally all the same. _Something was definitely wrong with him._  
  
“Well, then. That means Tim and Molly now know, too.” John scrubbed the back of his head with his right hand. Sherlock shook his head in the negative.  
  
“Sally passed out afterwards.”  
  
“Ah.” John nodded. “Sarah still out?”  
  
“Yes. I didn’t disturb her.”  
  
“Good. She needs rest. She’s been under a lot of stress.”  
  
Sherlock snorted. “She’s handling it rather well, I think.”  
  
“Yeah. But. She still needs rest.” John sat back down behind the L118A1 and patted the ground next to him before slipping back into a comfortable shooting position. “Sit down, relax. I managed to find some ear plugs in my old battle kit in that trunk.” He tossed them to Mrs. Hudson. “You might want to put them in. I’ve got a few coming up on my right. Don't worry, they are clean.”  
  
“Oh dear.” She hurried to stuff her ears with the orange plugs. Sherlock dared to keep his ears open. He wanted to hear this gun in all of its glory, loud or not.  
  
“Ready to fire.” John murmured.  
  
Sherlock nodded, then realized he should probably say something. “Uh...”  
  
John grinned, but didn’t turn. “You’re fine, ‘Lock.”  
  
Sherlock jerked, caught off-guard by the nickname he’d assumed only his brother knew. So he wasn’t entirely ready for the deep-throated roar of the sniper rifle. In the darkness, the muzzle flared with the super-heated gasses billowing out of the vents. Somehow, watching this beautiful thing in action was even more intense and exciting than actually operating it. Brilliant.  
  
Mrs. Hudson squealed in both fear and excitement. “Ooooh, that’s so powerful, John! Did you get the thing?”  
  
“Yes. Confirmed kill. Mark it down, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock gazed at his friend for a moment, then did as he asked, grabbing the notebook and pencil and marking the column that John’d already started. “This is for-?”  
  
“What do you think?”  
  
He stared at the page. Oh. “Keeping track of your rounds.”  
  
“Yes. And?”  
  
“Um...and your kills?”  
  
“Yes. Greg and I have a running bet. Whomever kills the most zombies this week has to be the other’s slave for The next week.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes squinted. “You are joking.”  
  
“Nope!” John’s grin lit up the night.  
  
“Oh, you boys!” Martha tittered.  
  
Sherlock only shook his head in dismay. “Dear God.”  
  
John’s grin turned into a softer smile that he aimed towards the taller man. “If you only knew half of the shit we get up to, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock kept shaking his head. “I take it that it’s a good night then, judging by the tally so far?”  
  
The doctor nodded. “Yeah, it’s alright. Not too many out there right now, save for the ones over in the corner that-”  
  
Pop! Pop-pop-pop!  
  
“-That Greg just took care of. That’s four more for the Scotland Yard’s best non-consulting detective.”  
  
Sherlock marked that down on what obviously was Greg’s column. “You seem to be winning.”  
  
“I believe I am. I do have the advantage of height, and experience.” John shrugged. “Can’t say that he’s doing half bad, though.”  
  
Sherlock’s lips quirked at the corners.  
  
As the night wore on, the two friends talked about things Before. After a while, they got stuck on a rather gruesome case that Sherlock was still attempting to solve, and didn’t notice Mrs. Hudson leave.  
  
  
  
    Sherlock jerked awake as a red breasted robin twittered out his song on the chimney. He blinked and sniffed into the bright morning light. “What time-”  
  
“Half past eight. Did you know you snore when you sleep on your back?”  
  
The detective turned to look at John, who hadn’t moved all night, it seemed. “No. I was not aware of that. I’m not sure if I want to be, either.”  
  
“Oh, it’s fine.” John chuckled. “I do too.”  
  
“I wasn’t worried about that.”  
  
“Ah. Okay.”  
  
Sherlock leaned to the opposite side. “Apparently, I fell asleep.”  
  
“Yeah. Slept through a couple more zombies, too. Hell, when you fall asleep, you really go out!”  
  
“Apparently.” He stretched his neck a bit. “Gah. My neck hurts.”  
  
“Well, you did sleep on a gravel rooftop.”  
  
“Oh, shut up.” He squinted at John. “You haven’t moved at all, have you?”  
  
“I thought you hate stating the obvious.”  
  
The squint turned into a glare.  
  
“Okay, alright, I’m sorry.” John chuckled softly. Sherlock kept his eyes on his friend, but the glare softened until it became...curious. Curious, and if John didn’t know any better...worried. “Tell me what you are thinking, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock froze. “I’d much rather not.”  
  
“You- you’d rather - why?”  
  
“Personal.” ( _Like why is it that I can really only sleep when near you?_ )  
  
“Like that’s stopped you before? You’ve told me in detail what a hemorrhoid feels like.”  
  
“Even more personal than that.” ( _Like how I think I love you, and I’d like to know what your ear tastes like._ )  
  
“Listen- “  
  
“John.” ( _Don’t make me do this, please, don’t ruin what we have_ )  
  
“You don’t have to tell me, alright? But I can see something’s bothering you, and it’s better to get it out into the open, yeah?”  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes. “No.”  
  
“It’s fine.” John nodded curtly. “If you need to -”  
  
“I. Don’t _need_ to do anything, John. Just drop it.” ( _Please_ )  
  
“Fine. Right. Just-” John scrubbed the growth of stubble on his chin and cheeks. “God, I need a shave.”  
  
Sherlock smiled. Leave it to John to change the subject like that. “I will take over for you, if you want to go have a clean-up.”  
  
John smiled and nodded, relieved. “Yeah, that would be great, Sherlock. Ta.” He took a swig from the thermos. “And the tea’s gone a bit cool.” He grunted as he levered himself up to his feet, putting as little weight as possible on his bad shoulder. Sherlock squinted.  
  
“Your shoulder still hurts.”  
  
“Yeah.” John rolled it, wincing. “It’s not used to this sort of activity anymore.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “See you inside.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
  
  
Sherlock composed a text.  
  
\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
0900 UST  
 _Mycroft. John needs some sort of medical attention. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

No response.

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
0933 UST  
 _Send a shipment of hot water bottles and electric blankets. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

Still nothing.

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
0945 UST  
 _Or a bleeding helicopter to get us the_ hell _out of here. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

Sherlock took a glance through the scope on the gun. Still nothing.

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
0947 UST  
 _Are you going to answer me? - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
0948 UST  
 _Mycroft. Answer you phone. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
0950 UST  
 _Everyone is going to die, and it is going to be your fault. You bastard. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1002 UST  
 _Do you even care? - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1010 UST  
 _I HATE YOU WITH A BURNING PASSION. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1011 UST  
 _Dick. You are a complete dick._  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1034 UST  
 _Mycroft Siegfreid Alestair Holmes. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

“You'd better be just ignoring me, you daft asshole." Sherlock muttered.

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1034 UST  
 _ANSWER - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1034 UST  
 _YOUR - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1034 UST  
 _PHONE - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1035 UST  
 _Mycroft. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

He debates throwing the phone over the edge.

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1045 UST  
 _Please call me at your earliest convenience. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1047 UST  
 _If inconvenient, call anyway. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1057 UST  
 _Please. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

Sherlock kills three zombies. He begins a tally for the day.

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1102 UST  
 _Please be alive and just ignoring your phone. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

He can hear Anderson below. He starts a tally for him, as well.

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1203 UST  
 _You are going to develop diabetes. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1204 UST  
 _And sores on your arse. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1224 UST  
 _Is Anthea still alive? - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1235 UST  
 _She’s good for you. Keeps you from going insane. John’s my personal assistant in that regard. Well, in every regard, actually. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1243 UST  
 _GOD DAMN IT ANSWER YOUR PHONE MYCROFT. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1245 UST  
 _MYCROFT. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1246 UST  
 _Mycroft. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1259 UST  
 _Myc. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------  
Text to Mycroft Holmes  
1302 UST  
 _Please. - SH_  
\-------------------------------------------------

This time, he does throw his phone, but just to the side. He can’t focus on trying to get his brother’s attention and kill zombies at the same time.

 

 

    He didn’t say anything to Anderson when the man came up to replace him at two. As a matter of fact, Sherlock said nothing to no one at all when he entered the flat. He went straight to his black armchair, perched in it like an owl, folded his hands, and zoned.

John was used to this by now.

Sarah was not.

She tried to get his attention for lunch, to no avail. So she went to John’s side at the kitchen table, where he was in the process of teaching Sally and Molly how to clean their guns.

“He should eat something.”

John spared a glance for his brooding flatmate. “Good luck with that. He’s in the middle of a puzzle. You’d be better off leaving him be, unless you would like everyone to know about your childhood diseases and your pet rock that you threw out of the window when you were twelve because you were ‘too old’ for one, but you went out at midnight to get it back, only to sprain your ankle because you forgot a torch.”

Sarah stared at John in shock, her jaw a bit unhinged. “Seriously? Did you just turn into Sherlock? How did you know all of that?”

John smirked. “I saw you staring longingly at my pet rock that I found in Afghanistan. Drew my conclusions from that, and since you told me you’d sprained your ankle when you were twelve because you went outside at night without a torch, it was a basic deduction.” He nodded at Sherlock’s still form. “That’s what he does. Only quicker and with less to go on. Seriously, though. Leave him be. You’ll be much happier.”

“What is he trying to figure out?”

John shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? But he’ll be like that for hours.”

 

 

    Molly sat in front of the electron microscope, notebook in hand. She chewed on the end of her pencil.

“It’s strange.” She muttered.

The digital recorder made no sound, but she knew it was on.

“There is definitely signs of the rabies virus and glycoprotein G, which would make people right about this thing...but there’s more to it, obviously.” She peered at her notes. “I’m also seeing the distinctive viral shape of...oh God.” She paused. “Ebolavirus.” She paused the recording and looked at the doorway, where Sherlock stood against the jamb. “Ebola. That’s probably how the people are dying. Bleeding out from Ebola.”

“I heard. Rabies and Ebola. A god awful mix, to be sure. Is there anything else? Something to speed it along, perhaps?” He moved into the room and shut the door. “John said something about us being safe, that it shouldn’t be airborne or we’d already be dead.”

Molly nodded. “I agree. So the vector isn’t influenza. What would it be?”

Sherlock looked into the microscope. “Infectious diseases aren’t really my area. I’m more chemistry. But did you see this?” He leaned over to her notebook, which brought him into close proximity of her chest. She didn’t dare move, though. “Ah, yes. You did.” He sighed. “Holes in the brain tissue. Well, so-called ‘holes’. Indicative of transmissible spongiform encephalopathy. You gather the virus data from the blood samples?”

“Blood a-and saliva samples, actually. The stuff in the microscope right now is brain tissue.”

Sherlock looked up at her, then moved away.

“Good. But how does it all tie together, I wonder. Not to mention the Ebolavirus. That is highly transmittable...unless it was somehow made less so by the mixing of the DNA of each disease...but that doesn’t quite make sense...” His brows furrowed as he stared hard at the microscope itself. “Damn it. Mycroft isn’t sure how much longer he can keep power running to Baker Street. Not to mention that I haven’t been able to get a hold of him all day, ever since his last communique.”

“Which was?” Molly continued gnawing on her eraser.

“‘Good luck. God save us all.’” Sherlock grunted and closed his eyes. “God save us indeed. If there were such a thing.” He slunk back out the door, leaving Molly to her devices.

 

 

    John and Sarah stole down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat for a quick shag before he had to take his turn. His shoulder quit hurting him for a while.

 

 

    “Sherlock. Get Greg out here and get up top with Anderson. We’ve got another horde coming.”

Sherlock tossed the stone he was fondling over his shoulder, his icy blue eyes fixing on John quickly. His John. His friend. Then he looked first left, then right. Not even a pigeon could be seen. There wasn‘t much to be heard, either. He looked at John again, who wasn‘t looking at him, but off into the distance.

“How do you know? Tell me.”

John’s head swiveled from where he’d been staring. He shrugged, and his lip tugged up into a grimace.

“Soldier’s instinct, mostly.”

Sherlock cocked his head slowly. _Something to figure out? Hm. No. Best to let John tell him, if he was right._ “Explain.”

John shrugged. “Dunno. Something like a...sixth sense, one that you pick up when you’re in constant danger, I guess.” He tugged at the hem of his desert sand-colored t-shirt. “Could be a scent on the wind, a certain sound or lack thereof...” His voice tapered off and he shrugged again, and turned back to the corner of Baker Street. “Hard to explain to someone who’s never been there.”

Sherlock blinked. Ah. “So, a feeling, not an observation. Or it could be an observation, if there is indeed a scent on the air, something tangible you can feel or see or smell, correct?”

John nodded. Sherlock looked the opposite way, and noted a decided...lack? Maybe. A lack of motion, an absence of - oh. Oh. Now he got it. He remembered something from his studies throughout school - small animals and birds would freeze when confronted with danger or when they sensed danger.

Now that there weren’t so many humans around Central London (the world), there had been a influx of rodents, birds, cats... something that had been happening more and more over the last couple of days, actually.

There wasn‘t a damned small animal in sight. Right. Sherlock scratched the back of his head.

“Alright. You want me to man the sniper rifle, then.”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

“Very well, then.”

 

 

    Crack-BOOM!

Crack! Crack!

Crack-BOOM!

The sun had just barely slipped beneath the horizon when the next wave of zombies hit. Even with Sherlock and Anderson’s rather surprising accuracy with the long guns, there were so many more to deal with this time. John squinted out to the mouth of Baker Street. He could see the masses out on Marylebone. They looked like a multicolored sea of people. Destroyed, wrecked, ravaged people. Bleeding, dripping, mangled...not people anymore, his brain supplied.

Thanks.

He turned back to Greg, who stood just behind the sideways door. “We can’t afford to be trapped behind that barrier, Lestrade-”

Crack-BOOM!

Crack-BOOM!

Crack-crack-crack!

“Yeah, I’m thinking the same thing.” The older man hopped over and walked out to John, checking the load in the Hi-Power as he moved around parts of dead zombies.

“You should see if there are any taller vehicles that we can get onto, make some higher ground so we can protect the entryway and not be trapped on the street with these fuckers.”

Greg nodded, but Sally, who’d followed them down, shouted and pointed somewhere behind the two men. “There’s something back there, looks like some sort of lorry!”

John winced. “Sally, try not yelling for once. Do you want to get their attention?”

“Sorry."

“It’s...fine. Just remember that next time." John craned his neck to look where she’d pointed. It was definitely a good sized flat-nosed lorry with an attached extended cargo hold. “Yeah. Yeah, that’ll work. Greg, I want you up on that. I’ll think of something else.” His head swiveled around, looking up and down the beleaguered street. “We want to be spread out for maximum effect, here. Since we don’t have to worry about them firing back, don’t worry about hiding. Just make sure you have a clear line of sight.” He turned back to Sally. “Sally, I want you to...wait.” He squinted at her. “How good are you with that shotgun?”

Sally looked at him in the semi-darkness. “Never fired it before in my life, but I’m pretty sure I can do it.”

John jerked his head. “Alright. Go get it, and I’ll find you a good position out here.”

Sally whipped around and disappeared, and Greg moved behind John to get to the lorry. John was left in the middle of the street, legs spread to balance his weight, holding his gun in a Weaver grip. He suddenly recalled a passage from a book he’d read in sixth form.

 

 

**‘And Caesar's spirit, raging for revenge,**   
**With Ate by his side come hot from hell,**   
**Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice**   
**Cry "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war,**   
**That this foul deed shall smell above the earth**   
**With carrion men, groaning for burial.’**

 

 

In his heart, and his mind, he was a stone in the middle of a calm stream.

“Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.”

How fitting.

He was once, now, and forever more, a dog of war.

 


	10. Kill Mercy Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In where Sherlock gets intimate with the L118A1, Sarah discovers John's stash, and Anderson discovers something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Korn/Noisia's "Kill Mercy Within"

There wasn't much to it, really. Simply keep still, control your breathing, and fire between heartbeats. That's what John had told him. Easy as pie. Sherlock could make an anecdote about how someone who'd never made pie would say it's easy, but then, John has obviously fired a sniper rifle before. Quite a bit, apparently. Royal Army Medical Corps, sure. Fine. Well, he can't be expected to get everything right.

Besides, though it wasn't as easy as, say, a shotgun (point and shoot, indeed - the radius of a buckshot round blast would take care of accuracy) or a handgun (once you've mastered the recoil, that is rather simple, no wonder the criminal underground prefers them to more accurate and efficient weaponry), Sherlock had the confidence and brain power necessary to do this. He could easily do this sort of job, he figured. He had patience; there were many times where he'd had to out-wait a suspect for hours, even days. Stillness, he could achieve; when he focused his attention inwards on his Mind Palace, sometimes he wouldn't move a skin cell until he finished what he was doing. And the breathing bit? Hell, breathing was boring to begin with.

Firing between heartbeats, though. That was more difficult, but even that was within his ability. He wasn't joking with John when he'd said he had complete control over his body. All it took was a conscious effort to slow his heart rate, something he'd learned in his meditation studies during judo training.

He focused now on the task at hand.

His eyes sought out a target. Breathe shallow, avoid jostling the stock or you'll screw up the sight picture.

There.

Wait.

Wait until your body is completely still.

Wait.

Breathe in, let half out ( _slowly, now, Sherlock_ ), wait for the moment between heartbeats...

Right index finger stroke ( _don't pull, stroke_ ) on the trigger.

Crack-BOOM!

The monster in his grasp roared. Seven hundred and fifty-six point three yards in the distance, another head shattered, sending brain matter mist into the air.

Keep your eye on the ocular, follow the shot to confirm the hit.

Mental check on the list of things to do before you die _:_  #238 - Fire a sniper rifle.

In his line of vision, he could see another zombie fall, another victim of Anderson's surprisingly good aim.  _That man is actually good at something. Maybe he should have gone into the military. Or become a hunting guide._  Sherlock closed his eyes to negate that route of thought, and focused once again.

Move the bolt, chamber another round.

Breathe.

Wait for the stillness.

Breathe in, let half out.

Wait for the 'sweet spot', as John called that moment where there is nothing happening in the body ( _interesting thought - technically, the body is dead for that split second between heartbeats_...)...

Crack-BOOM!

This time, a female with half of her mane of platinum hair ( _dyed out of a box, what's left of her roots were showing_ )ripped off her skull goes down, now missing half of her face as well.

Chamber another round.

Breathe.

Achieve stillness. Takes three seconds less than the last time.

Breathe in, let half out.

Count. One...two...three.

Crack-BOOM! Quickly move the bolt, _veryquickslightmovetotheright, re-aquiresightpicture-_

Crack-BOOM!

Two successive shots, a very large black man with psoriasis and a sickly looking heroin addict drop from view, red mist the only thing marking the spots they were occupying seconds before. The thunder of the reports from both the sniper rifle and assault rifle roll through the night.

Chamber the next round.

Breathe.

Stay still ( _two point seven seconds faster this time_ ).

Breath in, let half out.

One...two...three.

Crack-BOOM!

The shambling businessman in an absolute wreck of an Armani suit fell next.

The tidal push of bodies shifted direction. They were now began the relentless surge up Baker Street, straight towards John and Greg.

He'd have to start going faster.

His hand now moving on auto-pilot, the bolt ejected the empty cartridge and racked another round into the chamber.

He could barely tell if he was breathing now.

Stay still ( _barely any time at all_ ).

One...two.

Crack-BOOM!

A teenage punk spun, blood arcing from his forehead.

Load another round.

Breathe.

One...two.

Crack-BOOM!

A middle-aged man crumpled to the pavement.

Eject, load.

One...two.

Crack-BOOM!

A black youth in a track uniform fell.

The bolt flies back, hits hand when it tried to perform its automatic reaction. Empty magazine. Eject clip, slap next one on receiver to prime the load (John showed him that), slide it into the port. Slide bolt to chamber fresh round. Automatic, now.

Re-aquire sight picture. Adjust slightly for movement.

Breathe.

One...two.

Crack-BOOM!

Don't even bother to analyze who you kill. They are not human anymore. Just kill them.

Load a round.

Breathe.

One...two.

Crack-BOOM!

Beside him, he could hear Tim banging away with the less elegant assault rifle.

They were making a dent in the mass of people, but it just wasn't enough.

Crack-BOOM!

There were so many.

 

 

Tim Anderson still wasn't sure what happened in his life that he was now on the bloody rooftop with Sherlock Holmes, with bloody rifles, killing bloody zombies.

Zombies.

Jesus Christmas on a cracker with cheese.

Hell, if this was just one horrible dream, he'd gladly wake up at any time, now.

Any time.

Hello? He said any time now!

He sighed sadly. No matter how hard he wished, the weapon in his hands was as solid as the gravel beneath him, and the horrible sounds coming from the street below were as tangible as the chill of the night air surrounding them. He could feel the rifle kick against his shoulder ( _"Now, remember, Anderson, keep that stock snug against your shoulder or you're going to end up with a broken clavicle and one hell of a bruise._ ). It acted like a pinch.

Yeah, keep reminding him that this shit is real. Very bloody real.

There was nothing he wouldn't do for it not to be. He wanted to wake up, safe in his wife's arms. Thankfully, she was visiting relatives in Svalbard, or did that tiny island up by Norway get overrun, too? He supposed he'd never know, now. Damn it. There was nothing for it. He'd just have to get his anger out this way. He took out three more of the creatures below. Poor Greg. Maybe...maybe it was better not knowing. And what about everybody else's families? He stole a quick glance at the freak. No. Sherlock. He wasn't really a freak anymore, was he? Didn't he pretty much predict this, or something like that? Tim huffed a short laugh at the thought. Technically, the crazy bastard sort of saved their hides. Or maybe it was John, whom was even crazier than Sherlock in Tim's book, to be honest. Who _willingly_ hung around Sherlock on a daily basis, anyway? He didn't care what the others said, the war messed with the 'good doctor' big time. He took out some more zombies, then looked at Sherlock again. The younger man's face scrunched up in intense concentration as he pulled the trigger on that monster over and over again, his hand pistoning the heavy bolt back and forth. Tim could almost hear the detective's thoughts running along one path; the evidence was plain as day on his face. The way Sherlock methodically went through his mental checklist, every motion of every shot calculated within nanoseconds and nanometers...it was almost hypnotic. Anderson shook his head violently to re-focus on his own task - keeping John, Greg, and Sally from getting eaten by these freaks.

Yeah. Sherlock's not the freak. These things are.

Unfortunately, the job of keeping everyone alive was going to be harder than it looked.

He just couldn't get his mind away from the sheer absurdity of it all.

"Hey, Sherlock."

Sherlock hummed at him, a response the forensics man was not used to. Cursing, yelling, snarling...yes. But a hum? Sherlock grunted then, and muttered, "What, Anderson?"

"Remember about three months ago, when Sally and Greg had somehow managed to piss you off so badly that you completely blew up at them, and you said that 'you'd be better off in a world full of zombies because they'd still have a higher I.Q. than ninety percent of London on a good day?' "

Even in the pervasive darkness, Tim could tell that Sherlock's mouth crooked up into a half-grin, half-grimace.

"I don't think this is quite what I had in mind, Tim."

Anderson snorted, and took a quick three round burst at a group of zombies getting rather close to John's spot. He did it again for good measure, then saw John take down the rest with quick shots. "What do you figure these bastard's I.Q.s are, just by observing?"

Sherlock squinted down through his scope, taking in the mob as a whole. He then focused and stroked the trigger again. "Higher than mayonnaise, obviously. They can walk."

That gave Tim pause. "Mayonnaise. Mayo has an I.Q.?"

Another shot. "Somewhat. It reacts to light. Something like 2. I'm not quite sure if it's entirely true, but I wouldn't be surprised. Living organisms have intelligence, just not on the level that humans do." The bolt jerked back on an empty chamber.

Now Anderson got back into the game, taking out two ragged zombies. Blood flew everywhere, it seemed. "Sherlock, really?"

"Yes."

"That's brilliant. I eat an intelligent condiment."

Sherlock huffed a laugh.

Anderson turned his head to really look at the tall bastard. "I wasn't aware food had intelligence, especially something you slather onto bread."

"I'd figured it out by the time I was five. I told our cook that in no way, shape, or form would I be eating another sandwich with mayo on it ever again."

Anderson had to muffle his snort. "How'd he react?"

" _She_  told me that I was adorable and handed me a ham and mayo sandwich, then told me if I didn't eat it that I wouldn't be able to sample the rhubarb pie she'd made for the dinner that night."

"Jesus, that evil woman!" Tim couldn't help his laughter then.

 

 

Things on the ground didn't have that brevity. Not from Sally's point of view. John hadn't been able to find a good spot for her out in the street, so he relegated her to guard duty at the door. She tried to pretend it pleased her to be out of harm's way, but it wasn't quite the case. She wanted to be at her boss's side, if she was honest with herself. Greg was reaching fifty years old, and she worried that he wouldn't be able to move fast enough to avoid getting bitten by these nightmarish creatures.

Even from her vantage point inside the flat during the last attack, she could see the horrible visages of the zombies as they flowed down the road, and it'd made her shudder with revulsion and fear. Being this close to them wasn't much better, really.

John's orders had been very clear. "Do not open fire until they are coming towards you."

She understood why - they didn't have as much ammunition for the riot shotgun as they did for the military weapons, and John really wanted to conserve what they had for the future. Well, if they had a future. As Sherlock leaned against her in the bathroom and cried, she'd snooped in his phone (he probably wanted her to, that's why he'd given it to her in the first place, right? So it wasn't an invasion of privacy) and found the messages from his brother. They couldn't have been clearer if they'd been plastered on the screens at Times Square in New York City.

They'd been abandoned.

Now, it wasn't Sherlock's brother's fault - that sort of thing is up to the military commanders and the actual leaders of the government. But that didn't stop her from being furious at the man. Who was so callous to pretty much shatter what little faith that a man like Sherlock (who didn't take such a thing as faith lightly, when he had it at all, that is) had? She should be used to it, really, or at least expect it from the public servant. She'd met him once, and he actually creeped her out more than Sherlock did, and that was saying something. But during those horrible moments on the lino, propped up against the cabinets, she watched a man who'd actually dared to believe in his big brother's capacity in the government, believed that Mycroft would be able to save him - save them all - from this fate...she watched that faith go down the drain, destroyed by a few simple words. Those words weren't spoken out loud; the fact that they were written somehow made it worse. And there were the words that weren't even there, but were implied nonetheless.

_I can't save you._

So much for Big Brother.

She could spare some sympathy for the man, though - all she could hope for is that her sister got her hasty text, the last one she'd sent before everything went to shit. All she said was 'Get out of London NOW Miranda.'

She stood behind the barrier and watched as zombie after disgusting zombie were either cut down from above by Sherlock and Anderson or killed by Watson and Greg. So far, none of those things had so much as turned their ugly faces her way.

Thank God.

 

 

"Greg!"

The inspector turned to his friend. "Yeah!"

"How are you doing up there, mate?"

Greg looked about himself and took a quick tally. All limbs present and accounted for. As for ammo...aw, shit. He patted his pockets to make sure...nope. "John, I'm almost out. I've got two clips left, and three bullets left in this thing." He shook the gun in his left hand. "Hell, should have brought more out. How about you?"

John grunted as he almost over-balanced on the overturned delivery van he'd taken shelter on. He sent five bullets into five dead heads, and that ended the rocking motion of his high ground for a moment. He really didn't know how long that respite would last. They seem to have underestimated the numbers a...bit. In the half light of the street lamps, it looked like the whole of London (the WHOLE of London) decided to descend onto their little pocket of sunshine and rainbows. Seven more Parabellum rounds found seven more gory targets, turning diseased brains into mash. He ejected the empty clip into his waiting hand, shoved it into his pocket, and slipped another into place. "This is my last one. Call into the flat and tell the girls to start filling the extras and the empties."

Greg nodded and snatched his phone out of the pocket of his denims while keeping an eye on the things around him. John turned back to face the mob and began firing, picking his targets carefully. "Sally!"

"What do you need, Watson?" Her reply could barely be heard over the din of moaning and howling zombies. Well, at least she was listening about the being quiet thing. Not really an issue anymore, but he'll take what he can get.

"I'll need you to go up and get the full clips!" He whipped around and killed a chav-ish girl in Uggs boots who'd been reaching up for a taste of his heel. Down to seven rounds. Shit. Should have thought this through a bit more. Taking a deep breath, he pointed his gun down and pulled out his own mobile, dialing from memory.

The ringer barely buzzed before being picked up. "Yes, John?"

"How are you doing up there?"

"Anderson and I are discussing mayonnaise."

John's face did something awkward. "Wha- you know, I'm not sure I even want to know."

"It's fine."

"I meant with ammo."

"I know that. I have ten full ones."

John nodded, then swiveled at the hip, keeping his eye out for boarders. "Fine. One hundred rounds, then."

"Yes." A pause. Crack-BOOM! John heard that in stereo, so Sherlock had his phone on speaker. Smart man. You'd think it was common sense, but it wasn't, not really. "Seven left in the one currently in use. I could use nimble hands to fill my empty ones."

"I've got eleven full magazines left, John." Anderson sounded further away, but clear. John could hear his rifle in stereo too. Too much like Afghanistan, like being on patrol in the middle of a firefight again. Fantastic. He felt the adrenaline start to dump into his system in earnest at the thought, and it brought a rather dangerous-feeling grin to his face. He nodded again.

"Well, you guys are about to get even busier. Greg and I are almost -" John stopped and shot a meat butcher (still in uniform, the blood from cows and pigs [obviously] mingling with the blacker blood of zombies and the fresher dark red of humans. Really didn't want to think about that, really really did not want to think of that). John's eyes narrowed as the thing nearly flipped over backwards. "- out of ammo down here." Six. Six rounds. He turned back towards his left, away from the Marleybone entrance of Baker Street, and blew the face off of a elderly gentleman in evening dress.

Behind him and to the right, a blonde football mum's head vaporized. John felt blood and brain pepper his back. He heard the report almost immediately.

"I've got you, John. Be careful down there."

The doctor, soldier, and blogger (ex to all) nodded quickly. "Just be careful yourself, Sherlock. I don't fancy a matching hole in my right shoulder."

 

 

Molly pressed end on her mobile and ran to the kitchen. She found Sarah, who was helping Mrs. Hudson put together a midnight snack. "They need our help, Sarah. Start filling the empty magazines."

Sarah looked at the pathologist, and then to the coffee table where twenty magazines sat, full of rounds. "Way ahead of you. John has told me stories of how they'd run out of ammo during hours-long firefights in the war. I figured that while you were busy figuring out what exactly this virus is, I would make myself useful and fill them." She paused. "Wait, are they in trouble out there? What's going on?" They could hear the moans of the zombies outside the flat, and an occasional shout from one of the men. Sarah felt a cold shiver creep down her back.

The smile that graced the smaller woman's face lit up the flat. "I don't think it's going good, but they will be fine, Sarah. You are brilliant, because this is going to save a lot of time." And then she perked up even more, if that was possible. "Take those down to Sally. I've got an idea."

As the doctor gathered up the clips into a small canvas bag, Molly ran up the second set of stairs, clambered out the window in the second bedroom, and took the fire escape two steps at a time, barely remembering to shout to the men already on the roof as she vaulted the lip.

Anderson spared her a happy glance. "Our lady in shining lab coat arrives!"

Sherlock dropped the empty clip out of the L118A1. "Right side, front and back, and left side under my jacket."

Molly pulled up short, confused at the non-sequitur. "Wha-?"

"It's obvious. We aren't using them up here. John and Greg are running out down there. They called for more ammo, you are a smart girl - the solution-" he jammed home the next clip, worked the bolt, and fired- "-is clear. You want my gun and extra magazines. Thus, I told you where they are at. I'm attempting to keep my friends from getting eaten, so excuse me if I don't move."

Molly smiled- that exasperating bastard! How can you want to murder someone and want to fuck them at the same time? She shook her head and walked over to where the tall man lay. Yet as she knelt next to his prone form, her hands started to shake. Ignoring this, she reached beneath the left side first and found the butt of the Browning. She lingered for a moment, though. A part of her luxuriated in the unexpected permission to finally touch the body that housed the incredible mind of Sherlock Holmes. Another part sat, stunned, at his warmth, something she hadn't expected from such a skinny man. The rest of her brain stayed in neutral, spinning its tires. _Damn it_. Move on, get over it.

"Clips are on th-"

"Right side. Obvious, from the way you stated it earlier." Molly allowed herself to smirk when Sherlock huffed impatiently.

"Then get to it."

She could have just moved over to his other side to get the clips, but she didn't want to bother him more than she already had, so she leaned over his back a bit and hooked her right hand beneath him, definitely not feeling him up. She did move slowly, though, so to not disturb his line of sight too badly -

Crack-BOOM!

"Jesus Christ!" She screamed and nearly jumped out of her skin, which she successfully did not do. What she did do was fall on top of Sherlock's back, her hand trapped beneath both their weights. Sherlock grunted.

"S-sorry," she muttered, flustered. "So much louder up close...sorry, so sorry!" She grabbed for the furthest clip, determined to finish what she started...and paused when Sherlock jerked suddenly. "Sorry!"

"Molly." Sherlock's voice sounded a bit...different.

"Y-yes? Sorry."

"You...do know what a magazine feels like, correct?"

She paused. "O-of course I do, you daft -"

Anderson sniggered.

Oh.

She got it.

Oh hell.

Her hand shot back out, and she scrambled off his back, blushing furiously.  _Of all the stupid, idiotic, DUMB things I could have done..._

Sherlock only snorted out a soft laugh. "It's...fine, Molly. Just grab the clips."

Mortified as she felt (and sort of not quite wondering why the detective was lying on a cold rooftop with a rifle in his hands and a half-hard cock in his pants), she went back for the clips. This times, she grabbed all four with no incident.

Anderson had his laid out for her already, so all she had to do was grab them off the gravel and wrap everything in her lab coat (making sure the guns were on safe, of course). "Thanks." She turned to leave.

"Molly."

For one horrible second, she thought Sherlock was going to do his thing and deduce everything about that little exchange and tease her about it, as usual. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks again.

"Don't forget to come back up here to help us out, too."

She nodded, relieved and just a tiny bit happily. "Sure!"

 

 

Sarah rushed down the stairs just as Sally finished propping up some wooded slats to deny entry to the zombies. "We have full clips already.  What's going on?"

"Fantastic! That saves us time, that's for sure." The sergeant grabbed the canvas bag from the doctor. "From what it sounds like, they are running out of ammunition out there."

Sarah looked through the slats. "How are we going to get the bags out to John and Lestrade?"

Sally sighed heavily and scratched the mop of hair on top of her head. "I'm not sure." She winced. "We could just try to throw the bags to them from the windows, yeah?"

"No." Sarah shook her head, and turned back to the black woman. "We've got to think of something. We can't leave all the crazy plans to John and Sherlock, can we? We've got to reassert ourselves in this situation, or the guys will think that they'll have to protect us all the time. Trust me." 

"Oh, believe me. I'm a copper. I know."

"Alright then. What do we have that can be used in the flat? Anything at all. Start naming things."

Sally straightened. "Uh, a harpoon gun. Apparently."

"Okay...more."

"How am I supposed to know? I don't live here...well, I didn't live here before -"

"Okay, okay." Sarah shook her hands in the air in mild exasperation. "Think, Sally! This is Sherlock and John we are talking about. What do those idiots have?"

"Oh! A cricket bat!"

"Yes! That. And?" 

Sally shrugged, and Sarah wanted to shake her. Violently. "SALLY! Stay with me here." She blinked hard, thinking as fast as she could... "What did John do before coming to London?"

"He was in the...military? Sorry, I don't see the connection here..."

Oh, my God, is this what it's like to be Sherlock? Wanting to strangle people for being so bloody DENSE? "His things. His trunk. Yes! It's got to have something we can use in it. I'll be back!" She ran back up the stairs and jerked the door open, not bothering to shut it behind her as she rushed past Martha and literally dove for John's steamer trunk. "Oh, thank God it doesn't have a lock." She flicked the tabs open and lifted the lid. Gladstone slunk up to her hip. "Holy...wow."

Right on top sat a blood-stained battle dress shirt. She pulled that out, meaning to toss it aside, but her fingers had another mind. Before she knew it, it lay on her lap, unfolded. The back faced up, and she could see the ragged hole that had been blown in it by the apparently large-caliber bullet. She didn't know anything about ballistics or war or anything like that, but judging by the the damage to the material, it seemed to her that the round had traveled through his body armor first before hitting him. "John..." She felt a tear trickle down her cheek. The pup whimpered as he sniffed the red-brown khaki material.

"Is that John's camoflage shirt, dear?"

Sarah turned her head up to see Martha. "Yeah." She blew out a breath and wiped the single tear away. "Apparently the one he wore when he got shot."

"Oh dear. That poor man. I do remember him telling me that he'd been shot in Afghanistan. That poor dear boy. That is a lot of blood on that shirt." She tutted. "He'll never get that much blood out of it now, it's been too long."

Indeed. The whole left side of the shirt was stained brown and stiff, gritty with sand still stuck in the dried mess. She dropped the thing, feeling sick to her stomach, and looked into the trunk again. Three canvas bags turned out to hold fresh digital camouflage trousers and shirts, and another held...oh. She pulled out a wooden decorative box and hesitated.  _Should I open this?_  Curiosity got the better of her, and she opened the lid. Her breath left her lungs in a rush. Inside of the box, five medals lay on a velvet cushion, gleaming in the light from the lamps in the sitting room. She recognized the Victoria Cross and the two Distinguished Service Orders . The other two escaped her knowledge.

"A Conspicuous Gallantry Cross and a service medal." Martha supplied, in awe. "John has a Victoria Cross? Oh, what a brave young man! He must have done something quite special to get that, now didn't he?"

Sarah sat back on her heels, completely at a loss for words. Silently, she closed the box and set it back into the trunk. Next came three DVDs, their casings a bit dusty, and his medical records from the military. These she set aside. Delving back in, she couldn't find anything other than a really, really big knife. Brilliant. She grabbed it and stuffed it, sheath and all, down the back of her jeans.

"Okay." Her voice stayed soft, awed by what she'd found. "I think we are good." She looped the canvas straps of the small duffles around her arm. "Where are the cricket bats?"

Martha pointed to the couch. "Sherlock stuffed them underneath there, I think."

"And the harpoon gun?"

The landlady's eyes widened. "Ooh, that I don't know."

Sarah scanned the room, and found it in the corner by the brolly bin. "Found it." She strode over, grabbed it, and ran back down the stairs, where Sally stood, waiting.

"What's all of that?"

Sarah dropped the big weapons and pulled open the bags. "Uniforms. They are heavy canvas, so they'll afford us a measure of protection from the bodily fluids."

"I'm not wearing one of John's shirts. They are too big and they'll just get in the way."

Sarah thought for a second. "You do have a point. I'm wearing one anyway."

"Suit yourself." Sally grabbed a pair of pants out of her bag and pulled her denims off.

"Woo-hoo!"

Both women looked up. Mrs. Hudson held three load-bearing vests in her arms. "I think you girls can use these, too. I found them in that laboratory that Sherlock has set up in his old room. They look adjustable, don't they? I mean, they have these velcro tabs..." She came down the steps and handed the (wow, heavier than they look) sand-colored vests over. "You know, Sherlock should be more careful with all of those electronics in that room! This is an older building, and it could catch fire easily, doesn't he know that?"

Sarah grinned. "Body armor." How the hell did John get his hands on these? Good GOD. He was ready for this, wasn't he?

She pulled on her pair of trousers as Molly came down the stairs, holding her lab coat like a bag. The forensic pathologist froze and stared at them. Sally was putting on her body armor, jerking the straps shut so that the vest fit snuggly against her back and chest.

"Ouch, damn it! It's squashing my boobs!"

Sarah huffed, pulled her own on, and immediately agreed.

 

 

Molly gaped like a fish, taking in the scene. Sarah and Sally, wearing military clothing. She shook her head and set down her booty.

"Body armor? Where did John get that?"

Sarah tossed her a canvas bag. "Get that on, Molly. I've got a plan on how to get this stuff to the boys out there."

Sally had taken her lavender button-down off, and the black vest top she had on under it accented her toned body and -

"Oh, you have a tattoo, Sally?"

The sergeant looked at Molly, then at her shoulder. "Yeah."

Molly opened her bag, and discovered more clothing and a red - no, maroon - beret. Hmm... She smiled as she pulled the BDU trousers up over her slim-fitting jeans and trainers. She actually had to knot the belt twice around her thin waist. "Were these John's?"

"Yes. Not the point here, though." Sarah knelt down after adjusting her body armor to where it wasn't attempting to flatten her breasts into pancakes and picked up the last vest. "Not sure where he got these, though. Probably Mycroft." She tossed it to Molly, who just finished buttoning the battle dress shirt. "Transfer what you have to the bag."

Molly nodded. Sally looked hard at the doctor. "Used to giving orders, aren't you?"

Sarah's lips pulled into a faint smile. "I used to be the resident doctor at an A&E, and partnered in a private practice, the one John worked at. Just be lucky I'm not using the voice I used for the medical students."

Sally smirked. "I was a Detective Sergeant at the MET. Wanna go?"

"I talk to dead people for a living, and cut them open to poke at their insides." Molly smiled sheepishly. The others turned and sort of...stared at her. She shrugged. "Seems women can get into pissing contests too."

That made Sally and Sarah laugh loudly for a few seconds, and Sally smirked up at Sarah from where she was bent double, attempting to get used to the body armor.

"So, what's the plan, Doc?"

Sarah grinned. "Okay. Simple. We are going out there." Sally's eyes bugged. "We are going to distribute the ammo and guns to John and Greg. We are then going to get our asses back in here. And we are going to do this in as little time as possible. I think the best way to do it is to have the best shots on the outside, and the least experienced with a gun, probably me, will be carrying the clips and a..." She cast around, and picked up a cricket bat, "this. I'll be in the middle. You two will be on the outside." She nodded. "How does that sound?"

Sally stared.

Molly stared.

"You have got to be shittin' me. You just made that up! That's a crazy plan!" Sally squawked.

"It's nuts!" Molly agreed.

Sarah took a deep breath to argue, but the women continued.

"It's hare-brained!"

"Mad!"

"Insane!"

"Certifiable!"

The Scotland Yard detective and the St. Bartholomew's forensics pathologist turned to each other and grinned like madwomen.

"I love it!"

"It's so fuckin' nuts that it has to work, Molly!"

Sarah smiled, and wondered if John has ever felt like this when he had plans in the military.

Molly handed the doctor John's beret. "You should wear this. Your bangs are different than mine, and your hair might get in the way."

Sarah quickly pulled her hair back from her face and bound it in a messy pony. Bits hung down, just like Molly said they would, but she didn't care. She put the beret on and cocked it at a jaunty angle, like she'd seen in pictures. Suddenly, she felt...amazing. Powerful.

She took a deep breath and nodded, a simple jerk of the head, much like how she'd seen John do to Greg and Sherlock.

"Let's do this."

 


	11. No Quarter Given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the girls are complete badasses, Greg is done with your shit, and Sherlock is just phenomenal with that gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after I lost almost everything last night to my laptop taking a crap... I realized some of the Pashto swear words are actually Farsi (Persian). Hmm.... I think we may be alright... *winces* oops. Um... *hides*

 There was no more time for talk. Things were getting hairy down on the street for John and Greg. As Tim and Sherlock knocked down zombies, more kept coming, washing in from Marleybone, and now from Melcombe Street too, it looked like. Not to mention a few from Park Street. Shit.

"Anderson!"

"Yeah?"

"Load clips for me, please. I'm running out." He was down to three full ones - no, make that two. The bolt snapped open on an empty chamber, and he dropped the magazine. He could see the barrel smoking, as well. Was that a bad sign? He wasn't sure. He'd have to ask John, if they got a chance.

Tim slung aside his weapon and pulled Sherlock's ammo box to his side, then grabbed the pile of magazines from the man's side. "How many, do you think?"

Sherlock growled as he jacked the bolt forward and back to chamber a round. "I don't care, enough to matter!"

Tim nodded, his face grim.

'Where the hell is Molly?'

 

 

    " _Madar gendu_! I'm out!"

John jammed his handgun into the back of his jeans, hissing as the hot barrel slid against the skin on his arse. "Fuck! That's going to leave a mark. Greg?"

"Me too! I'm out!"

The doctor looked at the older man across the street. "We are now officially in the shit."

They were surrounded by the swarm, Charlie in the wire, with no usable weapons.

"Buggering hell."

"Get on that phone with Sally now."

 

 

    "Here!"

Tim tossed three clips at Sherlock. They slid beneath the front of the receiver, and Sherlock blinked at the man in acknowledgment.

"That will be fine. I'll fill some for you as well. You have larger magazines. It will take longer."

Tim nodded. "I know." He picked his gun back up and shifted his attention back to Marleybone. He resumed the assault as Sherlock grabbed his empties and ammo box, then set to work.

 

 

    "Son of a fuckin' bitch!"

Greg swiveled his head to see his friend riding out the violent rocking of his perch once again.

"John!" _Forget that bloody phone call._ He cast around for something, anything to use as a weapon. Finding nothing, he still looked for a viable way to get to the ex-soldier, preferably without getting killed himself.

"No! Greg, stay the fuck where you are, don't you dare move, do you hear me? Shit!"

 

 

    Quickly.

Quickly but efficiently.

Sherlock pressed rounds into the mechanism with numbed fingers, listening to the shouts from below.

Quickly but efficiently.

Anderson kept up the attack. "Sherlock, hurry, hurry, I need you on your gun!"

"I'm doing it!" Sherlock gasped.

"John's in trouble."

The man groaned. Obviously. "I have ears, Tim!"

"It looks like they are completely out down there."

Even though he knew that already, Sherlock's blood froze at the confirmation.

He worked faster.

 

 

    John couldn't believe it.

He was going to die in Central London in a zombie attack.

Bloody hell and ruddy fuckers. Not quite what he'd planned his great escape to be.

The rocking got progressively worse until it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He latched onto the door handle of the van with one hand and cut his other hand on a sharp edge of the broken window as he flailed on the slippery surface. "Fuck!" His blood only incensed the crowd and made his tenuous hold even more so.

"JOHN!"

He heard Greg yell, but it didn't quite register in his animal brain, the one that was threatening mutiny and take the reins from his operationally capable one.

Survival was all that mattered right now.

Survival.

Fuck it. He wasn't going to bloody die here. Not today.

The delivery van started to tip to the right due to the mob pressing in from the left.

John's eyes narrowed to slits.

Going to go tits up, then. He took a deep breath.

No contest. Operational mind won out.

The change from terror to calm was almost instantaneous.

Fear turned to adrenaline.

He could use adrenaline.

He felt the fire of action race into his nerves, setting everything alight. Time slowed down.

John braced.

Gory, grimy hands, some missing fingernails, some missing fingers; they grasped at air, metal, rubber.

Greg was screaming something.

John didn't bother translating. Not important. He was waiting. Watching and waiting. Waiting for the right moment...

Now.

The delivery van reached its tipping point, and with the screech of tortured metal, the van rolled onto its roof.

 

 

    Greg felt his heart pause as he watched the scene unfold.

"JOHN!"

He couldn't help the final shout that tore itself from his throat.

Jesus. Jesus Christ.

He couldn't see John anymore.

Fuck.

John went over the side. He was gone. Game over. John.

Fuck. He no longer heard the zombies around him. It didn't matter anymore. None of it did. John - dead. Gone.

Oh GOD.

The detective's heart plummeted to the ground. God. What was he going to tell Sherlock and Sarah - wait. Wait!

Was that a hand?

 

 

    John pulled himself out of the dark-haired traffic cop's grasp and onto the van's undercarriage, using random wires and rusty metal as hand-holds. The dead woman howled at him, and he flipped her two fingers on both hands as the vehicle settled onto its nose and windscreen with a groan and scrape.

"Jesus!" Greg's voice squeaked out in terror. "John, are you alright?"

He glanced over at Greg and gave him a thumb's up. "Ruddy good, ta! Hey, you got crawlers, Greg!"

Greg whipped around in horror. Two or three zombies were indeed using the roof of the truck (which was now the side, brilliant. Still steadier than John's, he'll give it that) as a ladder. Their wet fingers slipped and scrabbled, leaving gory trails of blood and fluids on the white paint. Oh God oh God...

"Damn it!" Greg backed away, completely done with this whole fucking thing...

"Look for a weapon, Greg!" John barked. "A loose bit of metal, a rod, anything, just look!"

"I'm trying, I'm fucking _trying_ , John! I've got fuckin' shit over here!" His voice rose on the last word. "God, help me!"

John blinked and started casting around for something he could toss to Greg.

 

 

    Sherlock took a ragged breath.

"Lestrade, please duck, for the love of God, I need a line of sight, just duck..."

He repeated the line of thought he wasn't aware he was saying out loud.

Anderson stopped firing when he realized what the man was saying, and pulled out his mobile.

 

 

    Greg jumped as his phone vibrated. He pulled it out and glared at the screen, then the zombies.

"Fuck it, and you too." He pressed the call button. "Anderson, this really isn't the best - oh fuckin' hell..."

He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around his head.

John's head snapped up from where he was trying to rip loose a rusty tie rod at the thud. "Greg? What?"

Crack-BOOM!

Crack-BOOM!

Crack-BOOM!

The three creatures attempting to board Greg's truck spun and fell backwards, torn from the roof by the energy of the high-velocity bullets tearing into their skulls. Red mist and brains flew everywhere.

Greg slowly looked up, lowering his arms. He still held onto his phone with a white-knuckled grip. He lifted the phone to his ear.

"Great shots, Sherlock."

 

 

    Anderson relayed the message, and Sherlock grinned wolfishly. "Expect more where that came from, rest assured."

Tim matched the smile and hung up, readjusted his aim, sighted in a target, and resumed fire, on the oncoming horde, leaving Sherlock to protect the two men trapped below.

 

 

    Sally pulled the last of the slats away from the entryway and motioned Sarah and Molly forward. "Okay, how are we going to do this?"

Sarah looked outside, and took a deep breath. "Well, we should leave the harpoon gun behind, that will just slow me down, and none of us have the upper-body strength to use it effectively. Alright. I think I've got it." She pointed a finger at the black woman. "You and Molly are going to shield me. Keep your backs to me at all times. We are going out into that mess. Greg is our first stop, then John if we can get to him." She winced. "He can defend himself if need be until we can get to him. After we get the ammo to them, you two hightail it back here. I'll stay out there with either of them, you can get back quicker without someone to protect."

The other two nodded, Sally a bit reluctantly, and Sarah smiled. "Okay." She glanced back outside. "I think you two should go first, set up a...perimeter, and I'll follow."

Molly laughed. "You've been listening to John's war stories, haven't you?"

The edges of Sarah's mouth pulled up into a small smile. "God, I sound like him, don't I? Good thing I'm dating a soldier then, yeah?"

Sally nodded. "Yeah, good thing."

"Oh, hold on." Molly rushed over to the bin by the door and dug into it. "I thought I saw something in here...hold on a moment...wait,  _another_  bag of marshmallows?...yes, yes!" She held up a length of rope. "We should tie these to all three of the bats as slings. Easier to carry, and we can give the other two to them to use."

Sarah nodded enthusiastically. "Brilliant, Molly! You are amazing!" She dropped the one she was carrying and pulled John's KaBAR knife from where she'd ended up tying the nylon sheath to the chest of the load-bearing vest. Working together, they got the rope cut and fashioned carrying slings for the bats. The doctor looped them around her right shoulder, and put the bags on her left. "Alright. Now we are good to go."

Molly went over the barrier first, then Sally, who carried the shotgun with her. Sarah crossed herself quickly and followed them out.

 

 

    John deemed the tie bar a lost cause (not rusty enough to pry loose using brute strength alone, and definitely not viable with his bad shoulder), so he set to work on the exhaust system, which looked much worse. Well, sort of. There really wasn't much of the system to be had; the thing had a straight pipe leading to the back, no catalytic converter or actual muffler. The back bolts holding it to the chassis came off rather easily, but the same couldn't be said about the front ones. Casting aside caution and thoughts about tetanus and lockjaw, he wrapped both hands around the pipe, planted both feet, bent his knees, and pulled.

"Come on, you son of a bitch, god damned-" Grunt. "-fuck you, tokmat gereh bokhoran!" He gave another hard yank, and the pipe moved -

Not one inch. "Fuckin' cunt."

He stayed bent over and panted at the pipe. Sweat dripped off his forehead, and he could feel his  shoulder screaming and forearm throbbing.

His neck prickled.

He hit one knee and ducked.

Crack-BOOM!

Instead of the wet splattering sound of a head popping open like an overripe watermelon, the shot carried an ugly metal-wrenching screech-groan with it. Sparks flew from where the bullet ripped through the bolt assembly and into the chassis.

"Jesus motherfucking sodding Christ, Sherlock,  _ricochets!_ " John screamed at the undercarriage and slapped his forehead with his bloody, rusty hand. Jesus fuckall, that man was scary accurate with that thing...He thanked the daft bastard with his next breath and went to work on the pipe again...nope. He felt a cold hand on his ankle, and barely registered it before it tightened painfully.

Oh shit.

His brain instantly shifted gears, and supplied a memory.

(Afghanistan, 2007- up against a compound wall in Helmand - Back turned - focused on Hammond saying some shit about what-the-fuck-ever- Hand on shoulder, gun barrel to neck)

MOVE.

He dropped down, hitting the chassis with his left hip, the side that was currently trapped by a zombie hand. He twisted at the hip to see his captor-cum-target opening its bloody mouth for a taste, pulled his right knee up, and launched his combat boot straight at the gaping maw of the freakish thing with all the considerable strength in his leg. Bone crunched under his heel, and the zombie rocked backwards. Tarry, black blood shot out from its mangled face, and the grip weakened. He jerked his left foot back and gasped, heart trip-hammering in his chest once again. "Fuck!"

He turned to look at Greg, meaning to get his attention - and froze.

What?

What in the blue flaming fuck were the girls doing?

 

 

    They had a plan.

Greg would be first, because he was closer to the door.

Sally slung the shotgun onto her back on the stoop and held the SIG in a Weaver grip. She walked sideways, crossing foot over foot (just like she was taught at the academy), keeping one eye on the ground around her to avoid stepping on dead bodies and the other eye on the targets. Even though her hands shook, each zombie she took a shot at fell.

Molly steered the group forward since she was sort of in front. Her targets also fell. Her hands barely quivered as her finger pulled the trigger of her hand gun over and over again.

Sarah herself tried to stay as calm as possible, but when you had to rely on other people completely for your safety...she wasn't too thrilled. But her plan was working, and she had her goal in sight, so she continued the forward push, gunshots ringing out into the night adding to the thunder of the big guns to make one hell of a racket.

 

 

Anderson took a quick glance over his shoulder, and blinked a few times. Was he seeing things? What the-

"Sherlock, are you seeing this? What the hell are they doing?" Anderson's voice had taken on a horrified note.

Sherlock just kept on firing. "How else were they going to get the ammunition and guns to those two, you idiot! Keep going. Give them all a fighting chance."

"But -"

"Anderson!" Sherlock hissed at him. "Those women are some of the most brilliant people I know. They obviously have a plan. I believe in their ability to execute it successfully."

"Oh, God." Tim turned his head back to the mouth of Baker Street. "Just be careful, Sal."

 

 

Greg couldn't believe what he was seeing. Jesus, women were crazy! Whatever the girls were doing to get through this shit, it was working, by Jove!

He knelt down and beckoned with both hands at the ( _brave? stupid? both_ ) girls. "Come on, hurry and get over here!"

"We are, boss!" Sally shouted over her shoulder. Less than ten yards to the first drop.

 

 

John could only watch in a heady mix of stunned horror and pure pride as they made it to Greg's position.

 

 

"Yes!" Sherlock whispered. He resisted the urge to jump up and down in glee.

 

 

"Pull her up!" Sally shouted, but Sarah shook her head in the negative at Greg.

"No."

Molly dropped the empty clip into her small hand and shoved it into one of the pockets of the vest, pulled out a full clip, and slipped it into place.

Sarah gestured wildly with her hands, then reached behind her. "Here!" She shoved a cricket bat into the inspector's outstretched hands. "Use this until I can get these bags sorted!"

Greg stared dubiously at the bat, shrugged, and spun around. He swung it underhanded at a zombie who'd made it onto the cab of the truck, hissing. The end caught the thing under the chin, snapping its jaw shut (hell, snapping its jaw completely) and flipping it backwards. It slid off in a streak of gore. The inspector nodded his head in satisfaction, and twirled the bat in a circle. Blood flicked off the business end. "This'll do."

Sarah tossed up a brownish canvas bag. "There's an extra gun in the bag, locked and loaded, and twenty four full clips."

He nodded at her, and stared down. "What about you guys?"

Sally smirked up at him as she thumbed her release tab and dropped her own empty clip as Molly took up shooting again. "Don't worry about us, boss. You can cover us now -"

Crack-BOOM!

Crack!

Crack-crack-crack!

Crack-BOOM!

Crack!

"Oh, well, between you and those two up there." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Freak and Anderson."

Greg checked the new Browning. Fully loaded, as Sarah said. He pulled his own from his waistband and loaded that one as well.

"Hey! Don't get cocky and cowboy that, Greg!"

Greg looked over at John. "I'm not that stupid!"

"I know! I've had soldiers try, so I'm just warnin -" John kicked a fat zombie hard in the face, toppling it backwards onto three more. The man continued yanking at the pipe, which had finally bent. His skin glistened with sweat in spots, his shirt drenched at the back and chest. "Clear a path over here! I'm running out of ideas, dammit! This fuckin' pipe is taking too god-damned long."

The zombies were resuming rocking his perch, trying to knock him loose.

"Alright!" Greg shoved one gun back into his jeans, and held the other with both hands, aiming towards the things making John's day horrible. "I'm ready!"

The girls all took a collective steadying breath and headed back into the din. Sherlock seemed to be highly psychic tonight, because he joined in on the path-clearing, picking targets well ahead of the girls.

 

 

Now that there were more guns in the mix, the going seemed much easier. Molly focused her attention on the crowds surrounding John. Studying that tableau, she formulated a theory in her mind about their senses. She wondered if Sherlock and John were coming to the same conclusions as she was. In the meantime, she and Sherlock destroyed zombies ahead as Greg and Sally watched the sides and rear.

 

 

Sarah also had her gun in hand, but waited to pull the trigger until one ugly old zombie got very close to snagging her shirt, its grasping hand (missing two fingers) plucking at the fabric of the BDU shirt. She fired point-blank with the muzzle damn near touching the thing's forehead - or what was left of it. Brains blew out the back of its skull and it slumped boneless to the ground, milky eyes sightless once more. She felt Sally pressing into her back, and she started moving forward again.

That was her first zombie kill.

Surprisingly, she _didn't_ want to throw up.

 

 

John could see his friends approaching, but he had other things to worry about at the moment. Namely, trying not get tossed off this ride.

His legs spread akimbo, knees locked, he rode the movement as the masses of zombies pushed and grappled, trying to get at him. He knew why, too - any idiot could tell that these things could smell blood. They were predators. Nothing more or less, really. Whatever this virus was, it was turning humankind into the basest creatures possible. Hyenas had more table manners than these...things.

Good God.

A heavy jolt nearly knocked him down. He flung his arms out to try to balance.

The next one did. He hit the chassis hard, and banged his head on the spring. He saw stars for a couple seconds and felt blood running down his face, but that lost importance as he felt clammy fingers latch onto his right wrist. Fuck! He balled his left hand into a hard fist and brought it crashing down on the zombie's arm, banking on the bone breaking like a twig.

It didn't, but a bullet from Sherlock did the trick. The humerus exploded in a shower of atrophied muscle and viscous blood, and separated from the rest of the arm.The creature fell away, its only anchor wrecked.

It roared on the way down to the pavement.

John pried the fingers off his wrist and threw the still-twitching arm _JesusFUCKINGChristAlmighty_  down after the thing.

Crack-BOOM!

Another zombie fell off the back behind the ex-soldier.

Yet another climbed over the front, using the grill as foot-holds.

POP!

It dropped forward, skull shattered.

"John!"

He leaned over the back quarter of the van, gripped Sarah's outstretched arms, and pulled her from the protection of her posse and set her onto the relative safety of the undercarriage. He squinted at her, silent.

"John, I got what you need. Here, take this first." She pushed the second cricket bat into his grimy and bloody hands. He didn't even look at it. She shoved the canvas bag into his arms next. "There's an extra hand gun in there, too. Obviously." She smiled at him.

He stared. Blinked. Licked his lips. Blinked again.

"You're...wearing my uniform."

"Yeah." She nodded. "We needed some extra protection from the zombies, so I figured I'd raid your-" She shot another zombie adventurer. John's eyes bugged, and a warm coil tightened somewhere in his core. His hands flexed on the cricket bat. Jesus...

"Anyway, I raided your trunk. I'm sorry."

"No." He licked his lips. His jeans suddenly didn't have the room they once had. "Sarah. That's my beret. On your head, that's my beret."

Sarah groaned. "Molly's idea. Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"God, I want to fuck you in that. Just that."

She stared at her doctor. Stared at his really, really dark eyes.

"Wow. Oh. Um, okay?"

John nodded. Just like that, he seemed back to normal. "Yes. Later. Right now, we've got issues." He turned to where Sally and Molly stood. "Get back to the flat, guys. We can take it from here, God, thank you!"

The hand on the small of Sarah's back told her otherwise.

 

 

The trip back to the door was so much easier, since Sally and Molly gave up the hero routine and just ran like hell. John and Greg covered their retreat, and in half the time it took to get Sarah out there, they were back inside the barricade, laughing like loons.

"Oh, my GOD, that was insane!" Sally shouted at the ceiling, exalted. "We're alive, I can't believe we did it!" She grabbed Molly by the shoulders and screamed. "Oh my _God_ that was awesome!"

Molly smirked. "Definitely over the top. Sally, sit down."

Sally grinned. "God, no! I'm back inside, I'm going to enjoy it!"

"I'm going to the roof. Do you think you'll be okay here by yourself?"

"I'll be fine, Molly."

The door to 221B opened and Martha walked down the stairs, tea in hand. "Sally, dear, here's something to drink. You must be so thirsty after all that running and killing those scary things!" She turned to Molly. "Would you like some?"

Gladstone and Tobias bolted down the stairs and attacked the two women with kisses and licks and headbutts. Molly giggled and put down her kitten only to get mauled by the bulldog. "No. I'm fine. I'm going to go up to the roof and help out Sherlock and Tim."

She walked up the stairs, shut the flat door behind her, turned at the second set inside the flat, and laughed out loud, sounding a bit hysterical to her own ears. She leaned up against the railing and just laughed.

"We did it."

She went up the stairs to John's room.

 


	12. Hold My Breath in Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which cherry pie is discussed, a meltdown is had, and Sherlock takes what he needs. John isn't all that surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where the relationships get sort of... melting pot-like. If you are confused, so am I at this point.

Sunrise.

Rosy half-light illuminated Baker Street and carnage upon it in an ethereal glow.

Crack-BOOM!

The last zombie fell in front of the grill of Greg's truck, taken down by Sherlock.

Silence.

Blessed, heavenly silence settled on the wasteland that street had become.

John made a small noise in the back of his throat, and sank to his rump on the underside of the oil pan of his van. "Oh, finally." Tension bled from his frame, and he crumpled in exhaustion, joints popping in sympathy. "Finally." The gun in his right hand hung limp between his knees.

No one said 'It's over' because it really wasn't. But at least this wave had been conquered. Bodies lay everywhere, strewn like so much wet wrapping paper and forgotten toys. Brackish blood stained the pavement beneath the corpses.

Sarah dropped to her knees beside John, holstered her gun, and relieved him of his. She shivered in the chill dawn air.

John wrapped his left arm around her shoulders, ignoring the bone-deep ache in his shoulder, and she leaned into the steadying embrace gratefully. For a few minutes, they sat like that and just breathed together.

Greg sat down on the edge of the trailer and dangled his feet for a while, just enjoying being able to do so once again. "Hey. We survived." His voice carried in the early morning air, loud and clear as a bell.

"Yeah." John squeezed Sarah's shoulders.

"I need tea," Sarah muttered into his bicep.

"Yeah."

Greg whooped. "I'm with you there, Sarah!"

She smiled at her lover. "And you need a bath."

John giggled. "Yeah, that too."

"Let's go inside."

The men nodded in agreement.

 

 

Molly rooted around, gathering the rest of the empty clips and matching them to which gun, filling them as she went. Anderson knelt on his knees and bent backwards to stretch his tight and sore back and shoulder. Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes. God, he was so tired. He could barely stay awake.

"You okay, Sherlock?"   
He turned his head wearily to look at Tim. "Mmm. Tired."

"Me too." Anderson rubbed his neck. "That was horrible."

"I agree."

"Do you think we miscalculated?"

Sherlock lifted his left shoulder, the right too damned sore to move much. "Perhaps just a bit. It's happened before, I'm sure."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"We...work well together." Anderson ventured.

The detective smirked. "As long as you don't open your mouth."

That earned him an answering quirk of Tim's lips. "And you don't make observations about people."

"Dick."

"Jerk."

"Asshole."

"Freak."

Sherlock dropped his head to his forearm and laughed. It had a bit of a hysterical, I-haven't-slept-in-a-week-and-I-don't-care-anymore note to it. Anderson soon joined in.

Molly shook her head in defeat. She'd never understand men, that's for sure. Ever.

The laughter died down quickly, leaving the men weak with exhaustion and relief. Sherlock gestured with one flappy hand towards Anderson.

"When we get John up here, let him know that the barrel of this thing glowed throughout the night."

"Why can't you?"

"Because the moment I walk into that flat, I'm going comatose, I believe. Possibly just inside the foyer. You'll have to step over me for about twenty hours. Unless someone surprises me with a tanker full of high-test coffee and an I.V. hook up so I don't have to expend any energy consuming it."

"Amen to that." Molly shoved the full clips into the canvas bag she'd brought up with her.

Sherlock rolled onto his back and breathed.

Anderson paused in his disassembly of the SA80 and motioned Molly over to him. He put a large hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly.

"Hey. You were pretty damned amazing out there, Molly."

She blinked, and twitched her shoulders shyly, a rosy blush rising in her cheeks. "Um...thanks. You were pretty amazing, too...up here." She winced. "Holding them back, I mean."

Anderson blushed a bit, too, which surprised her. They looked into each other's eyes, searching for-

A soft snorty rumble broke up the moment. They both looked over at the consulting detective, who'd passed clean out, arms and legs lazily akimbo.

Tim and Molly burst into laughter.

 

 

Ten minutes later, John (in a new t-shirt and his favorite jumper, but not showered yet) and Sarah climbed onto the roof to let everyone know about breakfast for the victors. They found the two forensics experts babbling about things they had in common (socially awkward, severe dislike of monkeys, a fondness of fossils, cats, forensics, and each had awkward romances) and Sherlock splayed out on his back, snoring lightly. John smiled at the scene this made, framed by the rising sun. A feeling of peace settled on his heart, and he squeezed Sarah's hand. She bobbed her head wearily.

"Seems you two have made friends."

Molly looked up. "I'm not too bad without Sherlock around, and he's out."

John nodded. "Yep. I can see that."

Anderson pointed at the sniper rifle. "He told me to let you know that the barrel of that beast was glowing most of the night." He shrugged. "I'm not sure what that means, and I don't think he knew either."

John's head kept bobbing. "Yeah. I'll take care of the guns. Why don't you two go down and get some eggs and coffee into you." He shook his head at Sherlock. "I swear that man can sleep on the wing of a jet in flight if he had to."

"Yeah. Let's head down, Molly."

Molly looked uncertainly at Sherlock's prone form. John sighed.

"I'll take care of this daft bastard, too, don't worry." He looked at Anderson's gun. "Oh, you've got it half apart already!"

"Yeah."

"Great! Works for me, less work on my part, then. Ta."

 

 

Sarah watched John dismantle the rest of the assault rifle and pull out his gun cleaning kit from the gun bag. She looked over at Sherlock, who'd turned over in his sleep and was no longer snoring as a result. He gave no intention of actually waking up anytime soon.

Good. She didn't really want to have this conversation in front of the brilliant man, but he'd find out soon enough, right? That is, if he didn't already know about it. She looked back to find John was watching her, a question on his face. Shit. Sherlock doesn't give this insufferable man enough credit. Not only was he utterly amazing in bed, he also wasn't afraid of emotion, and could read her like a road map. Literally. She wondered if he was picking things up from the consulting detective...

"Sarah? You look like something's bothering you."

She shook her head. "Nothing's actually wrong, love." She learned long ago not to lie to John Hamish Watson. "It's just - I was wondering..."

Suddenly, his face blanked. Just went neutral. "You saw them."

Sarah panicked. "I- what? Saw-"

"You were in my trunk." He waved his hand, the one that didn't have a thing of gun oil in it. "That's fine. It's fine, Sarah. But to get to the bags, all the bags, and my knife...you saw the case. It's...fine. Really." His face said otherwise.

"I wasn't snooping, I swear. But I looked, and..." She didn't know how to finish that sentence. "They are pretty." Nope, that's not what she wanted to say at all. She wanted to hold him and whisper 'you brave, brave man, I love you, you are so brave and you are a hero'. But the look on his face stopped her. The sudden relief, the crinkling of his eyes in amusement... Maybe she did say the right thing after all.

"Thank you. I...uh. Thanks." He fiddled with the bolt of the assault rifle. "I don't. You know. I...don't really talk about it. Those. I."

"I'm sure you don't." She assured him quickly, too quickly. "But would you? If asked?"

John shrugged, keeping his eyes focused on his task. "Dunno. I guess I'd be fine sharing. It's just, I don't...I'm not a hero, Sarah." He set the bolt aside and grabbed the barrel. "I didn't do anything to earn those. I just did my job." He blinked and licked his lips.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up."

"It's fine, Sarah. You are curious, just like everyone would be. Not even Sherlock knows about them." He sighed.

Sarah mimicked him, and laid her head on his good shoulder, just for a moment, and closed her eyes...

 

 

John smiled as he felt her body go limp against him, the beret from the 16 Medical Brigade sliding just a bit on her soft hair, just enough to put it into the actual position it was supposed to be in. He looped an arm around her and laid her head onto his lap so he could strip off his oatmeal jumper, fashion a pillow, and lay her down on it. It was warming up quickly, and he knew how warm those BDU's could be, so he left her there. "You, more than anyone here, deserve the rest, you daft woman." He brushed a stray hair away from her face, kissed her temple, and smiled. "You, Sarah Sawyer, are my hero."

He finished up with the SA80 and worked his way over to the L118A1 and Sherlock. His friend's chest rose and fell evenly, and the soft sleep sounds he made as John shifted him over so the doctor could dismantle the gun made him smile warmly at him. He stared hard at the barrel, checking for any heat fractures. Technically, it wasn't made for sustained fire suppression duty, which is essentially what Sherlock had been purposed with last night. This thing is a highly specialized piece of equipment. Thankfully, he found none (thank God for good engineering), he began cleaning it, conveniently ignoring how both Sarah and Sherlock gravitated towards him in their sleep until the consulting detective's arm rested on his lap and the doctor's small body curled around his left hip.

Is this what his life was, now?

He grinned, and watched the city brighten with the sun.

 

 

Right around lunch time, everyone migrated to the kitchen table. John deemed it safe to leave the barricade unmanned (Martha had mentioned that Gladstone had barked viciously throughout the attack last night, and Sherlock and Molly both surmised that the pup could sense the creatures and would make an excellent guard dog. John agreed wholeheartedly.), so chairs were appropriated and soup was made. The atmosphere hummed with conversation, and Sherlock listened to it all.

Sally was still on a brilliant high from her part in the action last night, and she regaled Anderson with the tale ("And I shot that bastard right between the eyes!" "Oh, God! You let it get that close, are you nuts?")

An interesting development: Molly and Greg sat next to each other, very close (thighs were touching, and he had his hand on her kneecap) as they discussed rigor mortis. Sherlock squinted his eyes. It was always something. Something he missed.

John and Sarah, though...

They sat on either side of him, and jabbered about not-quite-interesting things. He tuned them out, bored by the talk about sugar and how many cups it took to make a cherry - what?

What.

His brain didn't compute that.

Why were they discussing  _CHERRY PIE_  right now? Now, of all times?

They were having a normal conversation...after that...after what happened last night? How is that possible? He thought John would be crowing about surviving, and not ruddy pies.

His mind ground to a halt.

He didn't get it.

He just didn't get it.

He swiveled his head towards John slowly, as if the man was a bomb. Perhaps he was. The bomb looked back at him.

"What's up, Sherlock?"

Sherlock scowled. "Cherry pie?"

Sarah burst out laughing. Sherlock scowled at her instead. Then John joined in, and the scowl returned to him. Sherlock arranged an appropriately discomfited expression onto his face. John only shook his head.

"Sorry. It's just that, if that's all you caught from that conversation, you are in desperate need of recharging." His giggles died down.

"Fine." Sherlock cocked his head, interested. "What were you talking about then?"

"We were talking about how one of the zombies last night had a round pie face, and when John hit it with the cricket bat, the head actually exploded like an overripe tomato." Sarah spooned soup into her mouth. Sherlock's mouth went dry. Why?

"Apparently, we both thought that the odd color and shapes of the contents of the thing's skull looked sort of like cherry pie filling. That brought us to discussing our grandmum's best pie recipes and the sheer amount of sugar it would take to make enough for this entire flat."

Sherlock sat back, feeling quite disturbed.  _What was so disturbing about it?_

"That's...actually. I don't know." He blinked a few times.  _What was wrong? It's cherry pie._

Oh. Oh. That's what's wrong. This whole conversation's wrong. He made a small hiccuping noise.

Sally paused in the middle of her story.

Greg stopped rubbing Molly's knee.

"Oh, John, Sarah," Martha smiled in her matronly way, "I've got a recipe that will knock your socks off."

Everyone stared at her.

"What?" She shrugged her shoulders. "If we have the makings for one, I can make it today."

"That's a great idea, Martha!" Sally grinned.

"Yeah!"

"Let's look for sugar!"

Sherlock stared. He stared at everyone. He was decidedly feeling very, very ill.

John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, making the man flinch. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock blinked some more. He put his head down, hiding his face.

A thought came, unbidden, to his mind.

_'Central London has been declared a Black Zone.'_

_'No one comes in, nothing comes out.'_

_'Good luck. God save us all.'_

He started to shake. Oh. The breakdown. Brilliant. Did it have to happen now? What triggered it? Cherry pie.

Normal.

Everyone was acting normal.

This was not a normal situation.

Far from it.

The anathema of normal.

Mirror opposite.

Greg's eyes grew wide, and Anderson tilted his head.

Sarah leaned forward, concern showing on her face as she tried to look at Sherlock's face. "Are-"

"Oh my GOD, if one more bloody person asks me if I am alright or okay I might just spontaneously combust." Sherlock knocked over his chair in his haste to get away from the table in general. "No. If you must know, for once I am not okay. Not.  _Okay_! We are trapped here, can't you see? We have been abandoned to these...things! We've been left to die on our own, with no assistance in the foreseeable future. We _have_ no future!" His feet carried him in a circle in the small kitchen. "I can't...I don't understand how everyone can be laughing and carrying on and getting excited over a fucking cherry  _fucking_  pie when we were all fighting for our lives just last night!" He scrubbed his hands through his brown hair wildly, then fisted it, yanking hard at the roots. The pain helped a bit, let him focus. "I don't understand how we can be so bleeding blase about all of the chaos going on around us! I don't even know why the hell I'm even trying to find a fucking cure when my brother has an army of scientists to do the same thing, doing the _same thing as we speak_!. He's not even sure how long he can keep power running to this flat, this street, so when it finally goes out we won't have any experiments to run anyway because we won't have any bleeding power to run anything any-fucking-way!" He paused. "Hell, I don't even know if Mycroft is still among the living! He hasn't answered any of his bloody texts!" He let out a strangled cry to the ceiling, and Molly jumped. "I hate this, I don't want to be here anymore, I want it to stop. I want to wake up from this and walk outside and see people, not mindless shambling walking corpses! I want everything to go back to normal, I want everything to be okay again because it is definitely not. Okay. NOW." His pacing stopped. "I want my brother. I want Mycroft. If he is alive, we can get out of here, I can convince him to steal a helicopter and come get us and we will be alive and safe. I don't want to be here. I don't want any of you to be in danger anymore. I don't want you all to think of cherry pie and then think of zombies, and I certainly don't want you to be able to make a fucking  _connection_  between the two! GOD!" He panted for a moment, then tore out of the kitchen.

"Bloody hell." Sally muttered. "Shit. He actually cares."

"Of course he does, Sally." John pushed away from the table and picked up Sherlock's toppled chair. "He's scared."

"We all are. You don't see us freaking out." Tim said.

"Because one- we already have. Greg, you, me, Sally, Sarah...and two- we express it in a healthier way. But I've seen grown men sob in Afghanistan, crying for Mummy. So this is actually good. He needs to get it out." He took his soup bowl to the sink.

"Wait, you?" Sally cocked her head. John flapped his hand at her. "Not important, Sally."

"Aren't you going after him, John?" Greg stood up as well.

"Give him some time to de-compress and sort out his mind."

 

 

Sherlock collapsed to the floor in the dark lab.

It seemed a better option than smashing every fucking piece of equipment in here to smithereens. How could his life have become this? What had he done to deserve any of this? He cradled his aching head in his hands (cold hands, warm heart - _no, I have been reliably informed I don't have one_ \- but then why does it  _hurt_ so much?) and groaned.

Here it was, his breakdown. Did it really have to happen now? And of course, everyone had to witness him shit his pants. So much for a bit of dignity and privacy...His mind raged against the cages of his Mind Palace, his body begged for confirmation of life and release (food? sleep? sex? cocaine? he didn't know anymore) and his emotions ran rampant. He laid back on the God-awful carpet and whined.

Oh, God, he was collapsing into a black hole and about to go supernova at the same time. He wanted to destroy, he wanted to rage, he wanted to cry.

He gave in to the tears.

 

 

"So, what do we do now?"

Greg stood at the window, watching the street below for any zombies. It was a warzone out there. He sighed.

John sat on the couch while Sarah massaged his god-awfully aching shoulder and poked at the clotted cut on his hand. "You want my honest opinion, Greg?"

"Yeah."

"We carry on. Keep going, keep living. keep surviving. That is all we can do. We will figure things out as we go along, but we have enough supplies for a couple months. After that, we will have to move on. Hopefully, the virus kills itself out and we can leave without being attacked. But I can't give anyone any guarantees." He grunted in pain as his girlfriend found a particularly ugly-feeling spot. Greg winced in sympathy as a high pitched whine escaped John's throat as Sarah worked it out. After a minute, John spoke, his voice strained.

"But for right now, we live."

"How much longer, John? How much longer can we do this?"

John shook his head. "As long as we have to, Greg. We don't have a choice."

 

 

Sherlock blinked as the door opened, allowing a soft glow of sunlight in. A familiar shape entered the darkened room (Sherlock had pulled the black-out drapes a while ago to avoid stimuli) "John?"   
"Yeah. It's me."

Sherlock sucked in a breath. "I apologize for the outburst."

"Don't. Can I sit down here with you?"   
  
Sherlock nodded. John shut the door, dropping them both into the darkness again.

John sat on the floor.

Silence. Sherlock blinked rapidly.

His friend, cohort, partner in all things devious - his life, his JOHN- took a breath too.

"Words okay right now?"

"Yes. As long as they are not direct questions."

He could hear John's smile in the huff of air from his lungs.

"There was a month in the Kandahar district where we weren't sure if we'd come back to base, let alone make it home to England." He sighed. "Taliban were everywhere. Every patrol was hit. Every convoy was ambushed. In that month, we lost over four hundred men and women to improvised explosive devices. Car bombs. Mortars. SCUD missiles. Friendly fire. Snipers. Accidents. Land mines. Enemy action. It was ugly as hell." He paused, breathing into the darkness.

Sherlock leaned forward, encouraging John despite the man's inability to see him.

"We'd go out with no idea if we'd still be alive at the end of the day, hell, at the end of the next minute. Second, even. When we went out in the Snatch 2's and Jackals, on patrols and convoy protection details, we didn't know which moment would be our last. So we dealt with that the only way we could - we didn't think about the future. We lived in the moment. That moment. This moment. We only looked ahead when we had to plan troop movements or operations. Other than that? Never. Did we plan for Christmas at grand-mums? Nope. Did we think about how our weddings would look? Hell no. We didn't dare." John breathed. "We'd make horrid jokes about death and the chaos around us. It helped us deal, helped us cope." In the darkness, John took Sherlock's hand in both of his, and squeezed. "We'd also just take what we needed from our mates, our comrades. whether it was a slap on the back, a hug, a wrestling match, a boxing match, a good punch in the face...or a warm body in the cold-arsed nights."

Sherlock turned quickly to look at John's barely-there profile.

_Did that mean what I think it meant? Did John..._

"We trusted each other, Sherlock. Body, mind, and soul. We owed each other our lives a million times over. We kept each other alive, sane, feeling." John took another deep breath. and squeezed Sherlock's hand again.

"John." The name croaked out of Sherlock's throat.

"I'm not asking any questions, 'Lock. Not one. I'm going to let you make the decision. I will only say this. Whatever you need to feel alive, take it. Take it from me, Sarah, Greg, Martha, Anderson and Sally, Molly... Whatever you need to make it through this, because we need you, Sherlock We need you. We are there for you. We are here for you now."

Sherlock froze.

He said whatever. He said to take.

Sherlock ripped his hand away from John's, grabbed his doctor's face, and bloody took.

 

 

Sherlock's lips weren't quite as rough as John would have imagined. And yes, he'd imagined. Who the hell wouldn't? The tall bastard was walking, talking, insulting sex on _fire_. He didn't really expect the sheer desperation of the kiss, either - well, he sort of did. Sort of reminded him of the night he and Hammond had pretty much fell on each other after that horrid ambush outside Musa Qala...It was hard, rough; he could taste copper and salt where his bottom lip had mashed against his teeth, and just barely outside arousing.

To be honest, he wasn't sure if it was supposed to be arousing. It just...felt.

 _'This is for Sherlock, all for Sherlock',_ he reminded himself as the younger man's cold hands held on to his face as if he was going to fall into a pit if he let go. John's dirty hands slid up to grip Sherlock's shoulder and upper arms, and he became that anchor, that pillar of here and now. They were in the moment, and nothing else mattered anymore but the push and pull of lips and hands and sensation. A soft moan cut through the silence of that dark room,  and John wasn't sure who it came from. It must have been Sherlock. One cool hand moved to the back of John's head and held on for dear life as the kiss deepened, tongues slipping out of wet lips to trace and touch. Yet it still didn't feel sexual at all, at least not to the doctor. God.

Finally, Sherlock pulled back, ending the connection. He stared into John's dark face. "I."

"It's okay, Sherlock." John stroked the man's arms, trying to comfort him.

"I...don't know what I want."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not." A slight hint of panic colored those words, and that's not what John wanted to hear. He gripped Sherlock's biceps tightly, enough to bruise.

"Yes, it is. Don't think about it. This flat could blow up, right now, what with all of this equipment plugged in everywhere. There is no way in hell this can be fire code compliant. Don't worry about later. All you want to think about is right now. Right here, this moment, Sherlock, not the next, not tomorrow, not tonight, not an hour from now." John drew his hands slowly down Sherlock's arms, down to his hands, and just held them in his own, warming them. "What. Do you want. Right now?"

Sherlock groaned. "Oh, hell, I don't know, John!"

John sighed. "Relax."

The taller man leaned forward until his pale forehead bumped against John's. "Breathe. I just want to breathe. Breathing isn't boring anymore, not when you are lucky to do so."

"Okay. Let's breathe."

They fell into silence once more.

After a couple minutes, Sherlock took a deeper breath.

"You almost died. John, you could have been knocked off that van and torn apart, your insides bared to the world, bleeding out on the tarmac, screaming and crying out...I was on that bloody roof, and there was nothing I could do but kill the zombies around you and hope to Hell I didn't hit you on accident."

John blinked, and breathed.

"I didn't know what to do. Anderson kept firing into the masses that were coming up the street, but they didn't stop."

John squeezed Sherlock's hands.

"I'm not sure what I would have done if you'd died."

John nodded against his best friend's head.

"Then Molly and Sarah and Sally went out into the middle of that, and my heart literally stopped cold in my chest. What if that had gone horribly wrong? What would have happened? What if Sarah would have died? What would you do, John? What would any of us do? I can't even imagine losing Sally and Tim, and I don't even _like_ them."

John could feel hot tears touching his cheeks.

"John. John. I want to breathe, but I can't anymore."

Sure enough, his breath was hiccuping out of his lungs on the tail of sobs.

"Help me."

John reached up and drew Sherlock into another, much softer kiss. Not deep ones, not desperate ones, just soft, chaste kisses on the younger man's cheeks and forehead and lips and chin and nose, kisses that flavored John's words.

"It will be okay, Sherlock, just breathe, I'm here for you, I won't leave you. I'll never leave you. You are safe. We will be here. You don't have to worry about a thing. Just breathe for me. Calm down. Don't worry about us. We will be fine. Worry about yourself. Don't think, just breathe. Concentrate on that. Stay with me. I'm not going to leave you, Sherlock, I'll be here."

Sherlock nodded, moving away from tender lips and wrapping his long arms around John, his John, his friend, his love and life and his everything.

He hugged John, the man who said 'It's all fine' and 'A bit not good' in the same breath, the man who stared down the most dangerous man in England and said 'no', the man who likes jumpers and tea and lie downs and crap telly, yet will kill you if you make him and not even bother thinking twice about it (Well, he wasn't a very nice man, and a bloody horrible cabbie)... Sherlock hugged his John, the only one in the world, and breathed.

 

 

Greg watched Martha move around the kitchen, putting things away and cleaning up from lunch. Sherlock did have a point, he really did. They should be concerned about what was going to happen to them now that they were completely on their own. But at the same time, he agreed with John that they should just focus on the here and now, and not worry about anything else until they had to...oh hell, what the hell were they going to do?

He just wanted bloody cherry pie, damn it.

He worried about Sherlock. That really looked like a mental break to him. Sherlock, the cold, logical detective who didn't do emotions or anything like that. He really thought that Holmes would be simply ecstatic to be able to experiment with this new world. Everything was so new, nothing was the same old shit anymore. It was almost liberating, in a way. But nope. He figured wrong, again.

What was going to happen now?

A door opened behind him, and he turned from where he leaned on the table to see Sherlock stride down the hallway. He definitely did not look like someone who had just had a mental breakdown not even an hour ago. Even with the red rimmed eyes and even messier hair, he looked...normal.

Sherlock didn't stop until he was right next to the inspector.

"Greg. I apologize for my behavior and actions earlier. It seems I am not handling this very well at all."

"Yeah, no, you don't have to apologize. I think all of us need a break."

"We won't get one, really." The younger man drew up to his full height. "I will take the first watch tonight. I need to think about things alone for a while, so come get me when we are ready."

Greg slowly nodded, and Sherlock turned on his heel to go to the couch. Without thinking much, the D.I. reached out and snagged his shirt sleeve. "Hey. When wasthe last time you heard from Mycroft?"

Sherlock turned around and looked Greg straight in the eye, and Greg could see the fear in his quicksilver gaze, just a small taste of it. "Yesterday morning."

"He's alive, Sherlock. I promise you, he's alive. You probably couldn't nuke that man out of existence."

Sherlock shook his head and pulled away from Greg's grasp. "You can't promise that, Greg. You know you can't. It is statistically improbable, just like our continued existence. Don't give me false hope. I know you are used to doing so, as an Inspector for the Yard, but we no longer do that. You can quit now, and just leave me be so I can think."

 

 

John lay on his back in the dark room and closed his eyes.

_'God, I wish I could give Sherlock some sort of closure, at least.'_

Deep breath in.

Slow exhale.

_'Hell, if only Ella could see me now. She'd probably be disappointed. Or proud that I'm handling it so well. Or she'd be afraid of me. Hell. She's probably dead.'_

Deep breath in.

Slow exhale.

He pulled out his mobile phone and started texting.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Text to: Mycroft Holmes

1345 UST

_You had better be alive, you asshole._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Text to: Mycroft Holmes

1346 UST

_You better not be fucking with your little brother right now._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Text to: Mycroft Holmes

1346 UST

_I will find you, and I will end you, if you are. Just letting you know._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Text to: Mycroft Holmes

1347 UST

_He needs you, you bastard._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Text to: Mycroft Holmes

1349 UST

_Just be alive, and text him._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

"Sir, we need to leave now."

Mycroft dropped Nicholas's wrist, knowing that no amount of medical attention could help his aide now.

His pocket vibrated.

He took a breath, hoping it wasn't as shaky as he actually felt.

The last twenty four hours have been absolute hell. Downing Street had been - at least, it was supposed to have been - a safe haven, impenetrable. But somehow a large mob of survivors had breached the defenses, looking for shelter, and attacked when they were confronted by the guards. Then the thing they'd been trying to avoid all along, the absolute worst thing that could have happened did: a young woman at the back of the crown had 'turned'. The security team killed her, but the damage had been done. The safe haven had turned into a tomb.

His mobile vibrated again.

Damn it. If they'd only listened to him and shot every newcomer on sight, this would have never happened. But no one wants to listen to some old has-been, it seems. He tightened his grip on his umbrella, the only weapon allowed to him ( _essentially, only his personal aide knew that it was a weapon at all, therefore he was allowed to have it. Tedious._ ).

"Sir." Anthea (her real name was still unknown to him) pulled at his arm. Her bloody face had a sickly pallor in the half light of the emergency lamps in the underground escape tunnel. "We need to leave, Mr. Holmes." They could hear moaning echoing off the walls. Not good.

"And where exactly are we going to go?" 

"Another safehouse, Mr. Holmes." Andrew drew back the bolt on his assault rifle to chamber another round. "I really wish you hadn't sent the backup assault load-outs to Central London, sir. Civilians wouldn't know how to use the equipment inside. If you don't mind me saying, sir, it was a waste."

The elder Holmes snorted. "Not one of the people I sent those load-outs to would be categorized as 'civilians' in any way, shape, or form, Mr. Ormond, so as a matter of principle, I do mind you saying it was a waste. Please be less concerned for people we can not save and focus your attentions on the task at hand." He turned to his left, to the silent young man carrying a large, custom made briefcase. "We are to keep this man alive at any cost. Let's get moving."

He would answer the messages later. Right now, he had more pressing concerns.

Britain had no successful Continuity of Government plan in place for an apocalypse of this scale. That would be remedied as soon as they had a stable ruling party in place.

Well, if they still have people to govern.

If they survived this at all.

His old spy instincts and training were kicking in. As the group of four (the only survivors) moved down the escape route, he only wished that MI6 had listened to him and ran the 'zombie apocalypse' scenarios he'd recommended.

To take a page from his dear little brother, _'Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remained, however improbable...'_

 


	13. These Scars We Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there are memories, John's got a bit more to him than meets the eye, and Sherlock's still trying out this whole 'caring' lark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, whatever. There's no notes about this chapter. If there is something wrong, just let me know. *shrugs*

 

 

“So explain this to me again. How the hell is Ghorak next to Shah Wali Kot, again?”

 

Watson shrugged. “Nobody within five hundred kilometers knows how to make a map?” He grabbed the laminated paper from McCarter again and squinted at it. “Correction: they know how to make a map, it’s just the naming thing they have a problem with. And apparently spelling as well.” He threw it onto the hood of the Panther. “No wonder we can’t find the village, we aren’t even in the same fucking district, apparently!” He threw up his hands in defeat to laughter from his squad.  
  
McCarter snorted. “At least according to this fucking map.”  
  
“So what do we do now, Sergeant?” Baker looked up from his prone position on the road as the young man munched on a cracker from his MRE pack. Both Watson and McCarter barked a laugh.  
  
“Don’t worry, kid. We’re fine. Just keep an eye on the wilderness, and let us know if you have something. The sergeant’s gonna re-do this fucking map, and then we will be on our way.” The corporal looked up into the blue-white sky and muttered, “If we can do this thing before it gets dark.”  
  
“Oh, shut up, Mac.”  
  
Hammond glanced into the distance, the spot he’d snagged on top of the armoured vehicle affording him a wider range of view. “Or we can hope that dust cloud is a convoy that knows where the fuck they are going.” He shielded his eyes against the hot sun as Watson swung up onto the Panther with his binoculars.  
  
“Hell, I can’t tell, even with these things. Mac, take your team and set up on the other side of this goat path. Take Harper with you.”  
  
McCarter nodded brusquely and with a swift “yessir” trotted to his guys, dragging the medic behind him. Watson could hear the corporal giving orders and men moving to obey them.  
  
Hammond knelt and looked up at Watson. “Who do you think it is?”  
  
“Always assume Taliban until proven British.”  
  
“So, Watson.”  
  
“Yeah, Hamtaro?”  
  
“First, fuck off.” Watson snorted. “Second, what if they’re Americans? Do we throw cheeseburgers at them?”  
  
Watson smirked and shook his head slightly, and raised the binoculars to his face again. “Berk.” He squinted, crow’s feet forming around his eyes, much more than a thirty year old should have. “Besides, the vehicle’s Afghani. Very good chance we’ve got Talis. Get ready.”  
  
Corporal Hammond hopped off the Panther and got his men up and moving as Watson followed him down. The sergeant walked past the nose of the vehicle, swiping up the map and shoving it into a side pocket as he went.  
  
When the truck came close enough, Watson stepped out into the middle of the road and held out his left hand, his right gripped tight around the pistol grip of the SA-80 A2 looped around his torso.  
  
“Stop! _Wadarega!_ ”  
  
For a moment, the old Ford looked as if it would keep going, but as John readied himself to take a shot at the radiator (No way in fuckin’ hell he would miss from this distance), the old SUV finally rolled to a halt. As the dust cleared, Watson peered into the windscreen - and grinned.  
  
 _Sodar bachiya._  
  
His boots crunched in the hard-packed dirt of the road as he moved around the nose of the Ford and rapped on the side panel with the butt of the SA-80. The driver’s window creaked down, revealing a bearded, darkly tanned - and most importantly, smiling face. Watson reached in and poked Scott McIntyre’s arm.  
  
“Fucker. Where the hell are you going?”  
  
“That is need to know information, Watson. And it depends if you need to know or not.”  
  
“You got a map on you, mate?”  
  
“Why, you lost?” McIntyre smirked, and Watson smacked him hard on the shoulder, right over the flash of the 40 Commando.  
  
“No, we just have a shit map that’s trying to tell us we are in Ghorak.”  
  
“Well, you’re in the Army, that’s your first problem, Watson. Should have joined the Forty.” The man reached behind him to grab the laminated sheet that one of his men rapped against his head. “How the hell do you rate a Panther if they can’t even give you a good map?”  
  
“16 Air Assault.” Watson said, as if it made a difference.  
  
The smirk turned into a full fledged smile. “Bugger all, all I get is this fuckin’ jalopey, and you get an armoured vehicle with a machine gun on top, _fuck_. But at least I’ve got a map.”  
  
“That’ll get you further than this blasted tank, if you know where you are going.” Watson traded the map for the one he’d shoved into his pocket. McIntyre took one glance and burst out laughing.  
  
“Fuck, this is _golden_ , brilliant! Do they even know how to spell Miyanishin? Shit. And,” he squinted, “what the flaming blue fuck happened to Reg’s border, Jesus -”  
  
A sudden crackle over John’ earpiece - “Sir, I’ve got chatter on I-COM. We’ve been noticed, and we are about to get dumped on. They’re talking mortars and RPGs. I can’t see them from the road, but I’m assuming they’re over in that hedge and the copse of trees over about three zero zero zero yards northwest of your position.”  
  
John nodded and grunted. “Fantastic.” He looked hard at the man in the truck. “Sergeant Scott McIntyre, Forty Commando, Royal Marines?”  
  
“Sergeant John Watson, 2 Para, 16 Air Assault Brigade?”  
  
“How do you feel about a spot of target practice, old boy?”  
  
“Oh, that would be capital, jolly good, old chap!”  
  
  
  


 

“John?”

Snuffle-snort. “Hrrmns - Stay ov’r on th’ side o’ th’ road, Hmmm-nd....”  
  
“John, dear?”  
  
“Hrmm- wha?” John blinked awake. “What?”  
  
He was still in the dark laboratory. _Jeeze, must have fallen asleep._ Mrs. Hudson stood in the foyer, backlit by the light in the hall. He blinked a few times, and sat up. “What’s up, Martha? Something happen?”  
  
“Oh, no, John. I just figured you might want to get some of that grime and sweat off of you.  You are going to have to use my bath, I’m afraid. Tim and Sally, bless their hearts, are using the upper bath, and Molly is busy with something...odd...in the one across the hall. I do hope she plans on cleaning up after herself, there seems to be quite a bit of...something that smells a bit off. I’m not sure what it is, though she assured me it’s safe...” Mrs. Hudson continued tittering on as John levered himself to his feet. He did need a shower, bad. He’d washed his hands before sitting at the table that morning, but (he sniffed himself) he did have an odour, and he really needed to see to his wounds.  
  
“Ok, Martha. I’ll go wash up.” He took a moment to orient himself, and took the offered towel. _‘I’m going to take a long shower, this time. Sherlock’s right. Who knows how long we are going to have this luxury?’_  
  
  
  
He took a moment to grab his small medical kit from beside the couch and his toiletries from the nearest duffle (he did stop to smile at Sarah, who’d passed out on the bean bags, and Sherlock, who simply nodded in acknowledgement - an improvement on the usual, so there’s that) and made his way downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s flat.  
  
“Hello, John.” The older woman puttered around in her kitchen, making tea and something that smelled very good. She pointed down the side hall. “Bath’s that way. Do watch out for the hot tap, it does exactly as labeled. The handle can scald you if you aren’t careful. And don’t use my good soap, use the stuff I set out for you boys.”  
  
“Martha, it’s fine. I’ve got my own. Don’t worry.” John waggled his kit at her. Walking further into the sitting room revealed Greg, who’d passed out on the armchair and was currently snoring to beat the band. “Thought this was a girl’s only club?”  
  
“Oh, that was Sally’s idea, bless her badge. She’s quite the young woman, John. Very headstrong. You know, Timothy is just perfect for her. She needs someone to care for, it seems, and Timothy is the type of man to let her. He’s such a nice young man. A bit average, but they fit well together.” She winked at John as he shook his head in dismay.  
  
“I really didn’t want to know. I still don’t. I’m going, now.” Just before he did, he leaned down and patted Greg’s shin. “You did good out there.”  
  
  
  


 

The hot water cascaded over John’s body in a torrent, sluicing away the dried sweat, rust, and blood that collected on his skin. He ran a soapy flannel over his torso and between his legs, relishing the feeling of being clean again. Such things were rare during the war. Half the time, he was washing out of a coffee can, other times he’d been afraid to take his shirt off in case it’d walk off on its own and get lost. His brow furrowed for a moment. _Hell, was there even a war anymore? Or had the zombies taken care of that, too? Jesus. Michael, Mac, Hammond....Scott. Shit._ His head felt heavy, and he let it hang, the water hitting the nape of his neck. Maybe they were still alive. Maybe they weren’t. Didn’t really matter anymore, did it?

Was there _anything_  left? He bent over to scrub at his bruised shins, enjoying the dull tones of pain that pressing on the discoloured parts caused, and delved into his mind.  
  
There was much of this situation that he understood, much that he could handle by falling back on his extensive military training. Patrolling, lookouts, guards, staying up all night and day, coffee... it was all old hat to him. He was also familiar with the terms everyone will be using now. ‘Enemy’. ‘Attacks’. Death. Piles of bodies they would have to avoid. Checkpoints. He was well versed in ‘black zones’. He also knew ‘green zones’, ‘red zones’, ‘white zones’, so-called ‘quarantine zones’, the whole lot. As a member of Her Majesty’s Royal Army, he’d been trained on the protocols of an emergency outbreak or biological terror, even more so when he finally jumped ship and joined the Medical Corps.  As a medical officer, he’d been trained to be part of an emergency biological response team. He even got the chance to be on one when a suspected outbreak of smallpox showed up in the Chahar Burja district in the Nimruz province of Afghanistan. Thankfully, it was only monkeypox - how it’d gotten to Afghanistan from Africa was still a mystery, but considering it is about as infectious as smallpox, if not as severe, and spread by rodents, there was every chance that it could have come in on a truck or boat, somehow, and spread from there when the rodents got loose...Wait a minute.  
  
“Oh.” He stared at the bath mat for a moment, trying to catch that errant thought. “OH. Oh shit!”  
  
He damn near cracked his skull on the steel handrail bolted to the wall of the shower as he reared to his full height. “Smallpox! God buggering hell, that would be the perfect vector!” He stuck his hand outside of the curtain while turning the taps off - _Jesus fucking cock, shit, the handle’s hot_ \- “Cold cold COLD WATER fuck!” - and pulled the fluffy floral towel into the shower stall, knocking his electric razor into the toilet- “Aw, fuck it, not like I really need the damned thing anymore as it is” - and quickly wrapped it around his waist and slip-slid-hopped out of the bathroom and to the kitchen.  
  
“John, dear, what’s all that racket abou - OH!” Martha’s hands flew to her mouth, and she turned her face up in a show of modesty (though John could see she was sneaking a peek). Molly turned from the cabinet she’d been standing on tiptoe to reach into and froze.  
  
“Molly! Perfect. Just the person I need to talk to.” He pointed at her, halted in the middle of the lino, and smiled wolfishly. “Smallpox.”  
  
Molly blinked at the nearly naked, _very fit_ man standing in the middle of a old lady’s kitchen. _‘I think these men are out to kill me.’_ “Um...small-?”  
  
“The vector for the ‘virus’, Molly!” John’s mouth hung open slightly in the toothy grin. Water dripped from  his open hands and arms. “Smallpox is a highly contagious disease, so much so that it would be a perfect transmission vessel for the triple whammy that it would take to make someone a mindless killing machine.” His head cranked from side to side until he spotted a floral notepad and pen lying next to Martha’s house phone. “Brilliant. I need to use this, can I use this?”  
  
“Of course, John.” Martha nodded.  
  
“Ta. See?” He motioned Molly over to the dining table, where they both sat, and John began to diagram each disease.  
  
  
  


 

 Greg’s face scrunched into itself just before he opened his eyes. Remnants of the really nice dream he’d been in the middle of before a bunch of racket woke him stuck on the backs of his eyelids. He didn’t really want to leave it. It was...nice. Warm. Comforting. Pleasant. Safe. Everything this new world wasn’t. There really was no point in going back to sleep at all, now, though, not with all the bloody noises out in the kitchen... He scrubbed his hands through his hair and steeled himself for the waking nightmare of his life as it was...

  
“...if we could get only get a hold of the American CDC’s information on the Arizona super-rabies strain. I can guarantee you that the virology looks the same as what you’ve discovered in that lab, Molls.”  
  
Greg squinted. _Rabies?_  
  
“But why the Arizona virus?”  
  
“If I remember correctly, that strain was actually being spread communally, like the flu. It was found in a skunk first, but by the time it showed up in the indigenous fox population, it was traveling through social contact, not just through biting and scratching. That shows that it could have become airborne, which solves the problem of how it spread initially. I mean, if it can already be spread that easily, you wouldn’t have to worry about adding the influenza virus to the mix. So then you make it even more deadly by introducing hemorrhagic smallpox, which acts quicker than rabies.”  
  
Greg sat up in the chair, fully awake now. He peered over the half-wall that separated the kitchen from the sitting room and confronted John’s naked back. Naked? The older man levered himself out of his comforta- he winced as his back protested heartily - ok, _not so comfortable_ position and padded over to stand in the kitchen foyer in his stocking feet. _Oh. John’s wearing a towel. A pink floral print fluffy towel_. Greg geared up to make a snarky comment about it when his words died in his throat as John shifted to scribble some more symbols on the paper in front of him.  
  
“The ebola is sort of overkill, but could be a way to get the encephalopathy into the brain if the rabies virus fails at it - not as if it really needs the assistance, but when you are altering genetics to create a weapon of mass terror and death, you’d want to make sure you get the job done, yeah?” He took a sip of his tea and tapped the table with the pen.  
  
“So what you are saying is this is a deliberate release of a biological weapon?” Molly’s eyes widened. John sighed. Greg watched the entry scar over the younger man’s shoulder blade shift with the movement of his ribcage, sliding over the smooth bone and bunched muscles. Another, wider, scar moved along the ribs themselves. The cop winced when he took another look; the pale scar was actually multiple raised slashes melded together and badly healed. Just below those, there was a much thinner diagonal line, running from the bottom rib around his torso. Jesus.  
  
“That’s what I’m saying. There is no way in Hell that this developed on its own. Nature would never allow a geno- no- a xenocidal viral bomb like this to form. This is definitely engineered by someone.”  
  
“Engineered?” Greg could no longer stay quiet. Well, it’s either that or stare at a nearly naked man’s scars.  
  
John and Molly both turned to him.  
  
“Yeah.” John nodded, and tapped his finger on the table idly.  
  
“By whom?” Greg shook his head and blinked. “Who the flying green hell would want to do...this?” He spread his arms wide over his head. “This is an apocalypse, not the bloody Tube! Insanity! Who in their right mind would do this?”  
  
“Someone who obviously is not in their right mind.” John squinted and stared off over Greg’s shoulder. “As far as I’m aware, America and England halted their biological programs a while ago, and supposedly destroyed any and all samples and experiments.”  
  
“Is there a chance something...I don’t know, escaped?”  
  
“No.” John stopped fidgeting and locked Greg with a hard stare. “Not escaped. Possibly stolen. This was terrorism. Biological terrorism at its finest. And they caused the end of the world, simple as that.” He shoved to his feet, barely grabbing the hem of the towel before it made a trip to the floor, and nodded. “I’m going to finish my shower. I think better in there, anyway. I want to talk to Sherlock, see what he thinks about this. I’m freezing, and Molly needs something to eat. Catch some more sleep, Greg. You are going to need it.” He tipped his head at Martha, and turned to go back to the loo.  
  
“Uh...I need to use the lav, John.”  
  
John turned around to look at Greg, who stepped towards him. The ex-soldier smiled.  
  
“Yeah, fine. Go ahead. You’ve been through Basic. You’ve seen a naked arse before.”  
  
Molly broke into little giggles as Greg blushed and smirked. “Yeah, you got that right.”  
  
  
  
Rather than actually using the toilet, Greg sat on the padded lid and listened to the shower water ( _not just a tad creepy, Greg_?), trying to marshal his thoughts into a single file line so that they didn’t just tumble uselessly out of his mouth. He wanted to ask. He really wanted to ask. But his brain just kept coming up dry. Shit. He plucked at the sleeve of his last clean button-up. The heather grey material slid through his fingers smoothly. His thoughts weren’t as cooperative. _‘Jesus...oh, the hell with it, I give up.’_  
  
John cursed as the soap bar slipped out of his hand and bounced out of the shower curtain.  
  
“Oop-sorry! I’ll just-” he leaned out of the shower, balancing himself with his left hand, and Greg got one hell of an eyeful.  
  
Never mind the obvious bits. In the harsher glow of the overhead and mirror lights, the uneven scarring running from his right knee to his hip seemed to jump out from the darker skin surrounding them. Those scars weren’t horrible, per say - just... painful looking. _‘Maybe that’s why there was a cane...’_ As he leaned back up, soap in hand, a deep pale scar spiked out from the crown of the Royal Army Medical Corps tattoo on his right shoulder, and another puckered hole peeked out on his right side, fading to mottled white, unlike the angry pinkish spiderweb of the exit wound on his upper left shoulder and chest. Greg blinked, and the curtain jerked closed. He took a deep breath...maybe John didn’t notice -  
  
“Get a good look, then, Greg?”  
  
Lestrade jumped, then winced at his obviousness. “Uh. Yeah. Sorry.”  
  
The one thing he didn’t expect from his friend was the giggle, the same giggle that seemed to make Sherlock’s face light up like Christmas. “Yeah, I sort of look like an extra out of ‘Apocalypse Now’ or something, yeah?”  
  
Greg grimaced. How do you tell a friend that they don’t look like a freak and not make it sound like you were staring at him?  “I got knifed, once, on duty. Right alongside my right hip. Coked out thief, and no, it wasn’t Sherlock. It wasn’t bad, not even really big, but it scared the hell out of Janet.” He picked at the carpet-y cover of the toilet lid. “Um...after it healed, she didn’t mind it so much. Said it ‘gave my body character’ or something like that. I guess.”  
  
There was that giggle again. “Sarah loves these things, for pretty much the same reason.” A pause. “I...don’t hate them. They’re part of my past, I guess, and I live with them. At least I’ll always have a story to tell, yeah?” John’s left shoulder brushed the curtain, and Greg glimpsed the dark shadow of another tattoo.  
  
“So, you have two tattoos?”  
  
The form behind the curtain shrugged. “Four, actually. I was young, drunk for two of them, and I don’t regret them a bit. Do you have any?”  
  
Greg smirked. “Yep. Nice skull and crossbones on my shin, and a punk pin up girl on my right arm. I was a punk as a teen, so it’s almost expected.”  
  
The taps turned off. “I think a lot of people were punks at one point in their lives. This is London, after all.” The plastic curtain slid back and John stepped out, grabbing the same towel he’d used earlier and drying off as quickly as he could. Now Greg could see the shoulder flash of some unit... “Eagle?”  
  
John cranked his head around and looked at Greg. “What? Oh. Yeah. 16 Air Assault Brigade, actually. The dog below it is-was, sorry- my call sign. Bulldog.” He gestured at the stylized dog baring its teeth, and went back to pulling his pants on.  
  
Lestrade leaned forward a bit. “What section?”  
  
John took a breath, then reached for his dingy jeans. “Uh... 2 Para for eight years, then 16 Medical for two. They were good years.”  
  
Greg nodded. “Ok. So, that’s why the beret...”  
  
“What about my beret?”  
  
The inspector shrugged. “The Royal Army Medical Corps have blue berets, right?. You have a maroon one. Don’t think that escaped Sherlock’s notice, John.”  
  
“It depends on the unit. Besides, I’m not too worried.” John smirked and grabbed his t-shirt and jumper. “He can go ahead and deduce me, since you’re too afraid to ask, and Molly just stares and gapes like a goldfish.”  
  
Greg peered at his friend. _Since I'm too afraid to - oh, you smarmy..._ “You’ve got to be kidding me.”  
  
“Why do you think I dropped the bloody soap, Greg?” John shoved playfully at the older man’s shoulder. “I’m not that graceless. The tension in here’s suffocating. Either ask, or leave it. Either way, I’m going back to the flat, and see what everyone else has to say about me.” He bent over and pulled on his socks and combat boots. “Come on. Should be interesting to see how long it take Sherlock to figure out which scar came from what.”  
  
Greg grinned. “You are barking, you know that?”  
  
“Yep! What do you think kept me around the crazy bastard?”  
  
“A low sense of self-preservation?”  
  
John shook his head and laughed. “If that was the case, I’d never survived my first year in Afghanistan.”  
  
“And yet, you are still around.”  
  
“Not like I can get loose now, can I?”  
  
  
  


 

The moment John, Greg and Molly walked back through the door of 221B (Martha pretty much chased them out of her kitchen after John tried to open the oven to see what smelled so _sinfully good_ ), Sally lost her jaw somewhere around the basement.  
  
“J-john? What the hell?” She stared at him, and Sarah sat up from the couch, where she must have gravitated after John left the flat.  
  
“John! Are you alright?”  
  
Sherlock raised his head from thinking -  
  
And froze, those bloody ethereal eyes flicking and twitching everywhere at once.  
  
John smirked. The game is on.  
  
Sherlock blinked once, almost like a camera taking a picture. John’s mind sort of clicked right then. _Huh. That’s probably what that is. Taking a mental picture of the scene. Or body. Whatever._  
  
“Hello, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock continued blinking. _How many bloody pictures does he need, anyway?_ John smothered a chortle, and his smile widened as Tim came out of the kitchen and dropped his sandwich.  
  
“Good GOD, Watson, what the hell?” Tim sputtered, and John could barely contain the giggle this time.  
  
Sherlock’s head slowly cocked to one side, and his eyes came into focus. Molly slunk out from behind John and made a beeline for the lab. Greg glanced sidelong at John, almost to say ‘now you’ve gone and done it’.  
  
“John. Are you incapable of wearing body armor?” was the first thing out of Sherlock’s mouth, that insufferable git. The next thing was, “Where’s the fourth tattoo?”, and the last comment, made as the tall man unfolded from his position on his chair and walked over to where his flatmate stood, unmoving, was, “John, that shoulder scar is beautiful! Actually aesthetically beautiful, in an abstract sort of way.”  
  
John could do nothing more than shake his head and laugh, low and soft, in his chest. “I’ve got a puzzle for you to solve.”  
  
“And quite a puzzle at that, my dear John. Did you actually wear any protective gear at all? I’m surprised your upper torso is as tanned as it is. If you were actually wearing protection, it shouldn’t be that tan.”  
  
“We had downtime, Sherlock. Not that much of a stretch. And it was bloody hot over there. We’re not going to wear full combat dress all the time.”  
  
The detective flapped his hand at John lazily. “No, that doesn’t matter, John, hush. You are being silly and boring. No, never boring, not you. Sorry. Ah!” Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of John, and everyone just...stopped. John’s eyes widened. _Oh, holy hell and fuck. Sherlock. Shit._ He couldn’t help it- after that kiss in the dark of the lab, no matter what it really meant, he couldn’t help but to _imagine..._  
  
“John, pay attention!” Sherlock’s fingers poked the tight bunch of muscles just below John’s belly button. John squeaked. He pushed down the resultant kick of early arousal deep in his gut. _Fuck, not if you don’t quit doing that, you berk!_  
  
“Sorry, what?”  
  
“I was just saying, I don’t claim to be one hundred percent correct all the time - “  
  
“Could I possibly get that in writing?” Greg quipped.  
  
Sherlock scowled and waved at him. “No, shut up. Anyway, as I was saying, not correct all the time. Most of the time, I seem to be wrong about you. Take this scar, for example.” The detective ran his index finger lightly over the thin white scar beneath the ragged ones on his left side. John squeezed his eyes shut against the shivery thrill that finger sent through his nerves. _Holy hell._ When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock glances up at him from beneath his fringe, and fucking hell... _he goddamn smirks._  
  
 _Jesus fucking Christ. That fucking...shit! I’m going to kill him._  
  
“This scar, the knife wound, is at least seven years old.” He strokes it again. John huffs. The slow simmer wasn’t going away, but at least it was manageable. “Considering you’ve been in London now for almost three years, that would place the time of injury...which is the oldest....somewhere around- “Sherlock scowls, “- 2005-ish...”  
  
“2003, actually.”  
  
Sherlock’s brows rise slightly. “Oh.” He looks at the scar again. “Nine years old. Very well. That would indicate that you spent at least six years in the military, more than my original estimate of two years.”  
  
“Considering you were basing your ‘original estimate’, as you call it, on a tan, how I stand, and my bloody haircut in a harshly lit room after about five seconds of looking at me, I can forgive the slip up.” John smiled, then hiccuped when Sherlock dragged the fingers of his right hand up his side. And that bloody smirk again.  
  
 _I repeat. Dead. Man._  
  
“Or... you regularly got stabbed in Accidents and Emergencies, which is possible, but statistically unlikely.” He walked his fingers up to the scattered scars above. “Now, these. These are interesting, more telling about what happened. These are much newer, around six years old. They are obviously shrapnel wounds. How would a fully covered soldier get such wounds? Simple. Not all body armor is the same, and some have side plates that can be removed. You removed yours. Why? Perhaps there was restriction of movement, maybe it was too hot. Most likely, though, is that you needed to move, and fast. So you were on a foot patrol. The ceramic plates offer optimal protection in the front and back, but without the side plates in, only those spots were protected from the blast. Grenade? No. It was an improvised explosive device. Remote detonation, or vehicular?”  
  
John answered this one for him. “It was a vehicle, driving past. Got past the main bulk of the convoy, slowed down next to a petrol tanker, and blew up.”  
  
“The large trucks you were alongside, they protected you from the worst of it. Who were you protecting?”  
  
“Hammond.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“He had an injured Afghani child in his arms.”  
  
“Oh.” Sherlock stroked John’s ribs roughly, trying to feel the roughness of the raised scars. That took away the warmth spreading in John’s belly, and he could think a bit clearer, which was a good thing around the quick mind of Sherlock Holmes. “Now, these weren’t very deep, but they were much too close to bother attempting to stitch them together. They healed badly because of friction, movement....the wound had been re-opened...three times. One time was deliberate...”  
  
“An ill-fated attempt to wake myself up after sixty hours of no sleep and massive amounts of Army coffee. Sherlock, I’m not the puzzle.”  
  
The sudden jerk of Sherlock’s shaggy head and the look on his face made John break into laughter.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You heard me.” John hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “I think I’ve cottoned onto something concerning the virus. I need your help, since you have such a vast knowledge of science-y...things.”  
  
Sherlock scowled. “I don’t want to bother with that damned thing anymore.”  
  
“No, Sherlock, I’m not going to have you bored off your mind and wasting bullets on the walls. You will go insane inside of 12 hours if you don’t have something to do. Trust me, this is getting interesting.”  
  
Sherlock turned his quicksilver gaze on John and scowled even more.  
  
“You won’t be displeased for long, Sherlock. Trust me on this, please?”  
  
“Fine.” The younger man planted himself on the floor in front of his flatmate, and rubbed Gladstone’s ears. The pup rumbled a play-growl and continued chewing on John’s boot toes.  
  
“Come on into the lab with us.” He turned to look at Greg. “Seriously. Get. Some. Rest.” John pointed at the now vacated couch, since Sarah was now on her feet and drinking tea.  
  
Greg stared at his friend. “What? But what about -”  
  
“Greg. I need you fresh, well rested, and ready to play, because we are taking roof duties tonight, and it’s only going to get worse from here on out. Sound fair?”  
  
“But what about you?”  
  
“I got some rest in the wake of Hurricane Sherlock.”  
  
“I’m hardly a weather phenomenon, John.” Sherlock huffed. “Don’t be so pedestrian.”  
  
Greg sort of shook his head at the man, and John sighed. “He’s just sulking because I’m dangling a piece of meat in front of him and telling him he can’t have it.”  
  
“Yeah, a piece of meat, alright.” Anderson snorted.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock stared at the forensics man.  
  
“Oh come on, Sherlock, you know what we mean!” Sally finally recovered her jaw - and her voice.  
  
“What? No, I was just examining evidence. Simple as that. Or is that too hard for your miniscule intellects to comprehend?”  
  
John raised his hands. “Ok, ok, before this gets any worse, let’s go, Sherlock. And Greg, I mean it. Park your arse and sleep, or I’m going to do it for you.”  
  
“Fine, alright, I’m going!” The silver-haired man threw his hands up in the air. “I’ll go back to sleep.”  
  
  
  
Once in the laboratory, Sherlock turned to face his best friend. _‘Something is wrong, I know it. I can tell. He’s tense. Something...I did something. Something not good. Should I apologize? What should I do? I don’t think I need to apologize, he did just saunter into the flat with no shirt on, practically begging me to examine him...was it the way I did it? I didn’t have gloves on, perhaps that’s the problem. Or was it the little teasing tickles I thought he’d like? Doesn’t he like to be tickled? I thought he would, judging by the way he tickles Gladstone’s belly. Did I do it wrong? Was it something else? Maybe he’s regretting the kiss. Oh, please don’t let it be that. I rather enjoyed the second kiss. The first was too scary and rough to count as a kiss. More like a mashing of faces. I don’t know, I’ve never been kissed like that before...what if he didn’t like it? What if he isn’t bisexual? What if he doesn’t like ME? I don’t know what I would do to try to convince him to like me..._  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock turned away to look at Molly.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
He shook his head slightly. “Nothing.”  
  
“No, there is something wrong. Don’t tell me there isn’t.” John turned him back around by his shoulders and took his hands. Sherlock couldn’t help but to squeeze.  
  
“Did I do something...not good?”  
  
John cocked his head. “What? No. No.” He shook his head and smiled. “No, you did fine. Just...leave the light fingers to the bedroom, okay? Not in public like that.”  
  
Sherlock blinked again. _Wait a moment. Hold on._ “John...”  
  
“Sherlock, I’m joking. Don’t freak out. I’m just kidding.” The ex-soldier’s smile widened into a grin, and he shook his arms, taking Sherlock’s with them. “It’s fine. All fine. I told you that, a long time ago. And now we are finally implementing that. I meant it then, I mean it now. It’s. All. Fine. Whatever you want, it is fine with me. Now, I’m serious about keeping you busy. I’ve got a theory about the initial vector of this disease, and with your help, we might be able to pinpoint the who, what, when, where, and why, possibly. We just need to get the how down right now.”  
  
Sherlock peered at his friend. “John...I didn’t mean to...”  
  
“Sherlock. I don’t mind you deducing me. Just as long as I can control when it happens, if it’s something personal like that.”  
  
Suddenly, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to grab John by the shoulders and shake him. He settled for rhythmic squeezes. “That’s the point, John! It’s personal. You never liked that before. Personal things were bad. Why now?”  
  
John sighed. “They are going to ask, now. They are going to ask about the others, and that’s better than just letting me do my thing and being afraid of me and not talking to me. I want everyone to see that I’m still human, Sherlock. I’m not a fucking machine, okay. I’m human, and I’m scared too. I’m just better equipped to handle it.” He tapped Sherlock on the forehead. “Okay? Okay. Let’s get going on this.”  
  
“Very well.” Sherlock nodded.  
  
John began explaining his theories, and Sherlock just stood and stared at his best friend in awe.  
  
 _Brilliant._ **  
**


	14. Find Shelter in This World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we find out being in a riot is bad all-around, a phone call is made, and Anderson is pretty much the best person in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from "Shelter" by Icon Of Coil
> 
> The video scenes - none of it is real. I tried to keep it realistic. I hope I did. The lines delineate where the video scenes start and the present day starts. It's confusing to me, so if it is confusing to you and you have a better idea? Holler. 
> 
> A slow patch in the zombies makes for good soul-searching, right?

  
  
  
  
  
“Do you really believe it was biological terrorism, John?”  
  
“I do, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock perched his lithe frame on a stool gleaned from St. Bartholomew’s long before this all began. His back pressed against the far wall, and he had his arms crossed over his chest. “It would seem the most likely scenario. We have most, if not all the puzzle pieces. But why? Why would someone want to do this, John?” He spread his arms in a wondering gesture. “Who would be so bloody manic that they would completely eradicate the human race? Unless they were actually misinformed about what they had in their possession -”  
  
“Or they weren’t in their right minds to begin with.” John pointed out. He hunched over the microscope, staring into the ocular with a singular mind. “This is the perfect storm. I think...no, the initial infection would have to have been airborne, somehow, because of the movement of the virus...but why didn’t we get sick during the attacks, then?” He carded his fingers through his hair and scratched his scalp, thinking.  
  
“Well, there could be separate infection points?” Molly scribbled something into her tablet, then checked the computer monitor and made a couple more marks. “Maybe the virus is still only transmissible by actually touching the mouth somehow, or being spat on. And being bit, of course. That would make more sense, since we aren’t infected. Unless we are infected, or carriers.”  
  
“No.” Sherlock shook his head.  
  
“I agree with Sherlock. This doesn’t seem to be the type to actually...be carried. It travels fast, and I think it dies fast, too. Once the host dies, at least the contagion part of it dies, but then that doesn’t make any sense either, because then how would people still be getting sick...hmm...but you do make a good point about multiple points of infection. Air dispersal of a liquid suspension containing the virus would do the trick. The vapor would be released into the air, and land on the skin or be inhaled by the victims...and it would have to be a large crowd, like a mall or a park or...” John’s voice trailed off as he squinted his eyes, and suddenly snapped them open again, the same time Sherlock jerked ram rod straight.  
  
“Tear gas containers!” They shouted at the same time.  
  
“John, do you remember if there were any riots or any sort of situation that would require the application of tear gas to a crowd before Toronto and the other outbreaks?” Sherlock had his phone out and he picked away frantically with both thumbs and fingers at the screen.   
  
John sat up fully from the microscope. “Not entirely sure, Sherlock, to be honest.”  
  
Sherlock nearly threw his phone in frustration. “Damn it all! The internet has collapsed. It is completely down.” He shook his head. “Let me think. I might remember something if no one bothers me.”  
  
John nodded. Molly continued to take notes from the results on the computer screen. As John watched his flatmate think, he racked his own brain for answers. “Oh, Yeah. Yes, Sherlock. There was rioting in South Africa, something about better wages for mine workers.” Sherlock looked over at the doctor. “China always has some sort of protest or riot going at any time. A lot of those protests happen at colleges. Some of those teachers and researchers are from other countries and went home after the outbreaks, or they continued working and went to the other countries to study.” He cocked his head. “But those outbreaks, the ones in Africa and China...they didn’t happen as fast as the one in Toronto...” The last part of that sentence seemed to roll slowly out of his mouth as his brain caught up to the realization...”...unless they were trying to downplay those outbreaks to avoid worldwide panic...”  
  
Sherlock smiled. _I positively adore watching his brain work._ So he didn’t make a noise as John thought.  
  
“Tear gas. Jesus.” And then it hit John, as visibly as if Sherlock had been going through the catalogues of his Mind Palace. “Jesus fucking Christ...”  
  
Now Sherlock jumped in. “And the possibility of these riots being deliberately sparked and fueled until they reached the proportions necessary to condone the use of tear gas, created for the sole purpose of distributing the virus...” Sherlock leaned forward on the stool.  
  
“Fucking hell.” John sucked in air through pursed lips. “Shit. No doubt about it then. Bioterror.”  
  
“Seems so. But why? What was the goal of this? And who did it? Who got ahold of the virus and introduced it to hundreds, if not thousands of tear gas grenades and mortars? How did it get distributed around the world without being used early? That is the problem with detective work - more questions to answer when you get more pieces to the puzzle. I love this!”  
  
John couldn’t help but smile at his friend. _Yep, Sherlock, so do I._  
  
“Does it really matter anymore, Sherlock? Does it matter who did it? They are most likely dead, some of the first victims of this extinction level event.” Molly chewed on the end of her pen.  
  
John shrugged one shoulder. “Or they could be holed up in a safe compound, waiting for the virus to complete the final life cycle and take over what is left in this world.”  
  
“John, that sounds like the plot in a perfectly horrid made-for-television movie.” Sherlock’s eyes sparked with grudging mirth.   
  
John grinned. “Or a plot line for the next Bond movie.”  
  
“God save us from Hollywood.”  
  
“But it’s sadly possible, right?”  
  
Sherlock looked at John. “Possibly. Plausible, likely if the terrorist wasn’t a martyr but an insane...mad scientist or something equally as horridly stupid and inane.” He shook his head. “But still a possibility, I suppose...”  
  
“I’d much rather not think about it.” Molly grimaced.  
  
Sherlock’s phone buzzed.  
  
A call?  
  
He stared at it for a second.  
  
John stared, too.  
  
Molly blinked.  
  
It buzzed again.  
  
Sherlock lunged to the mobile and pressed ‘Answer’.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes speaking.”  
  
A pause.  
  
“Hello, little brother.”  
  
  
  
  
Sherlock’s knees decided to betray him and go a bit weak at the sound of his brother’s voice. He backed (gracefully) into his original spot on the stool to avoid going to the ground and making himself look even more a fool in front of his friends. He breathed deeply, and let it out.  
  
“Hello, Mycroft.”  
  
He didn’t need to look up to see John nearly suffering the same fate as the man quickly grabbed the counter to balance himself. The relief was evident in his face.  
  
“How are things holding up on your end, Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock couldn’t keep the happiness out of his voice. “We had a very rough night, but we are all alive. And yourself?” He wanted to scream _‘Where the HELL have you been?’_ but couldn’t muster the anger needed. For once, Lestrade seemed to be right. Seems not even zombies could kill Mycroft.  
  
Another pause. “I’ve...been busy, I’m afraid. Things are not very good at all." _Shit, spoke too soon._  "I did receive your messages. Anthea is indeed alive. I...apologize for not responding. I do have to say I was disconcerted when I didn’t receive any overnight.”  
  
 _That is a fraction of what I felt, dear brother._ “I’m sorry. As I said, we were quite busy. Are there any others, other than you and Anthea?”  
  
“Two. Downing Street is a loss. We are currently out of danger.”  
  
Sherlock winced. _Downing Street? A unbreakable bunker, and an easily defensible position if anything. How did that one fall?_ “How long will you be out of danger, Mycroft?”  
  
“I could not say. We are high above the streets, I can assure you of that.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, even though Mycroft couldn’t see him. “It was a terrorist. A bioterror attack.”  
  
A huff. “Of course it was.” The resigned air Mycroft projected across the connection made Sherlock smile. Only Mycroft, The British Government’s Consultant (and Minor Public Official), would react like that. Of course, he’s probably used to this by now. Can’t be the first time something like this has happened, but obviously not on this scale.   
  
“How are the scientists doing?”  
  
“They are all dead.”  
  
Sherlock froze. _Oh God_. He suddenly felt very ill.   
  
“All of them?”  
  
“The military complex they were holed up in has been obliterated. There was an unfortunate accident, involving an explosion caused by unsupervised munitions placed too close to a fuel fire.”  
  
Sherlock could hear the blatant sarcasm in his elder brother’s voice. “Sabotage.”  
  
“Possibly. We wouldn’t rule out human error just yet. As if we could actually do something about it.” Another sigh.  
  
Sherlock swallowed thickly. “As well as the how, we have figured out the what. It’s a veritable thermonuclear bomb to the human system, and a perfectly engineered ‘zombie virus’. Let’s call it the ‘Z-virus’ for now. Apparently, this is a strain of super-rabies, crossed with haemorrhagic smallpox, ebola, and transmissible spongiform encephalopathy. Very ugly.”  
  
“Ah. Interesting. Our scientists had ruled out rabies as the initial vector because of the difficulty of introducing it to the population initially.”  
  
Sherlock snorted. “Then they are idiots. John was able to figure it out in the shower, for Heaven’s sake!”   
  
“That makes sense. More sense than the fragile influenza, at least. None of this actually makes any sense.”  
  
“Much more sense. I had originally assumed  the flu; highly transmissible as it is, it could have been perfect. But according to Molly, the virus itself may be hardy, but doesn’t stand up well to genetic alterations, Sort of fizzles out. The virology didn’t match up either, not exactly; and we need exacts, or you don't have a super-virus. But the state of Arizona in the U.S. had an outbreak of this super-rabies back in 2009 that showed up in foxes that passed through casual communal contact, according to the American CDC. Well, rather, according to John’s memory, which is rather good. I just wish we could verify the information, but the Internet is gone.”  
  
“Ah. Very good.” Mycroft sounded impressed. Really impressed. Sherlock smiled.  
  
“Also, the delivery method was tear gas canisters.”  
  
Silence rang over the connection. He’s not breathing. Our suspicions were correct, then. Sherlock’s smile turned a bit raw and hard edged. John stared at him, and he responded with a slight head nod, which was returned.  _Understood._

John was on the same page as he was.  
  
“The riots in South Africa, China, and Toronto were staged. Deliberate crowd baiting. Scientists traveled from China to India and Greenland, and then other places. The governments -”  
  
“Kept the incidents quiet to avoid panic, Sherlock. I believe you would be someone who could appreciate that.”  
  
Sherlock scowled. “Normally, yes. And I still do agree with you, for the mass of society that was indeed the best thing to do. But _we_ could have done with a bit more information. A little more warning that what you’d given us would not have gone amiss, Mycroft. The only reason I believed you in the first place was that John was already acting oddly since the first broadcast about the outbreak in Africa and China. Otherwise I would have just ignored the text.”  
  
“My apologies, Sherlock. I was caught off guard about this, despite my best efforts. This is just something we hadn’t - shush, Agent. I’m busy on the phone - actually expected would happen in our lifetimes.”  
  
Sherlock nodded and looked down. “I know.” He sighed. “We all were. John was the best prepared, thanks to, well, himself.” He looked to his flatmate and smiled a little smile. John smiled back.  
  
“Sherlock, you are doing very well. So very well. I am glad to hear this, all of this. I’m grateful that we can talk. Don’t forget that I need you.” The tone of his brother’s voice spoke volumes. Sherlock usually prided himself on being able to deduce people, even his own brother, even over the phone or from a letter. But right now? He didn’t want to know. _That light warble between ‘that’ and ‘I’. The typical exasperation that Mycroft would normally have with me when I would ramble is gone. Oh, no. No._ He took a breath. He really didn’t want to know. Mycroft was always so much closer to the rest of the family that he. The ill feeling he’d just gotten rid of came back full force.  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“Whatever for, Sherlock.” Surprise, and sudden... _Denial._   
  
“Mother’s dead. Isn’t she?”  
  
A deep breath. “I - I believe so, Sherlock. I am terribly sorry.”  
  
Sherlock swallowed a sudden uprising of bile.  
  
“Sherlock. Listen carefully. I can’t help you right now. To be honest, I never was able to, I suppose. But now you are well and truly on your own.”  
  
“Yes. I already know this, Mycroft.”  
  
“I apologize for this whole mess.”  
  
“It’s...fine, Mycroft.”  
  
“I am going to give you coordinates - oh, do shut up, Agent, this is my brother, I will do whatever I damned well please - the coordinates of the safehouse, the one we are on our way to, currently. Please be careful.”  
  
For once, Sherlock didn’t understand what his brother was talking about. “Mycroft, what safehouse? Aren’t you coming to get us? We can’t go ou-“  
  
Click.  
  
“Damn it!” The phone fell from his numb fingers. _Oh God._   
  
John appeared at his side, and ran soothing fingers down his back. “Sherlock. Are you ok?”  
  
He blinked at his friend, trying to focus through the shock. “Mycroft. He’s giving us an address out of here.”  
  
“That’s great! Perfect!” John smiled. “A goal. Bless that asshole.”  
  
At that moment, John’s phone trilled in his pocket. He pulled it out, and checked the message.

  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Text Message From  
Mycroft Holmes (number withheld)  
2203 UST  
 _Thank you for your concern, Doctor Watson. I am perfectly fine, and I have contacted my brother. No need to murder me. Please keep him safe. Also, the Detective Inspector as well. -MH_  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
  
  
John walked back out of the laboratory, leaving Molly to her own devices in front of the computer. Sherlock had decided he needed a shower. Perfect. He was beginning to develop an interesting smell. Not...horrible. God knows he’s been around worse. But...it was still odd for his flatmate to NOT be clean. _And should I be worried that I just described the smell of another bloke as ‘interesting’?_ Why the hell was he thinking about this? He shook his head violently to rid himself of the image.   
  
Sarah stood in the kitchen in her pyjamas, electric kettle in hand. “Hello, John.”  
  
“Hi.” Something’s not right here. It didn’t take a man of Sherlock’s caliber to read a room, and sense the overwhelming tension.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
John peered at her. _What was she talking about- Oh. OH._ “Um...”  _Oh shit. SHIT._  “It’s...” _Now you’ve done it, you dumb shit. DUMB._ “Um...”  
  
“John.” The doctor set the kettle down and looked at him. “Just answer one question, for me, please. Just one. Do you like him?”  
  
“He’s my friend.”  
  
“But do you _like_ him?”  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Sarah...I...shit.” His shoulders sagged in defeat. “Yeah, I think so.”  
  
“Okay.” She took up the kettle again and stuck it under the tap to fill it.  
  
 _Did I just miss an important part of this conversation? Did I pass out at some point?_ John narrowed his eyes warily. “...Okay? That’s it? Okay?”  
  
Sarah nodded.  
  
“I - “  
  
“It’s fine, John.” She turned back around and smiled at her boyfriend. “It’s all fine.”  
  
John smiled back.  
  
“Help me make the tea?”  
  
“I’d love to.”  
  
  
  
  
  
The moon high above London found John and Greg on the roof once more. The bodies of the zombies still littered the street below them, and from his vantage point John could see Sherlock picking through them meticulously. He watched carefully, but his mind was in turmoil. The text from Sherlock’s older brother had him by the throat, making it really difficult to breathe. _Mycroft, how? How am I going to protect them? How am I going to protect anyone? It’s an unachievable end state. I can save Sherlock from himself well enough. But from thousands of flesh eating monsters?_  
  
“He must be looking for something.” Greg shifted his weight on the pebble covered roof.   
  
“Yeah.” John nodded tightly. He kept his eyes on Sherlock. “We are leaving.”  
  
Greg’s head didn’t move from the scope, but his full attention was on John. “Everyone?”   
  
“Yes. I think at the end of the week. Sherlock’s brother called him while we were looking at the virus. Mycroft is going to be sending us coordinates to a safe-house somewhere. We’re going to be traveling by foot for most of it, all if we can’t find a vehicle. I’m going to go up the road with Sarah tomorrow to get bags and more supplies.”  
  
Greg’s shoulder lifted as he shifted. “What about Martha?”  
  
“I’m not leaving anyone behind, Greg.” John nearly spat this. “Even the animals are coming.”  
  
“Okay.” Greg nodded. “Not many zombies out tonight.”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
Below, Sherlock made a noise and held a piece of … something aloft. Anderson walked over and poked at it. Sherlock laughed.   
  
“They seem to be getting along now, yeah?”  
  
John bobbed his head. “Yep. Guess my speech helped.”  
  
Greg sighed. “I swear, they are children sometimes. That’s how bad it can get between them.” He closed his eyes. “I miss my girls.”  
  
“I miss a lot of people.” John’s voice caught, just a tiny bit.  
  
Greg took a moment to lean back and really look at John. The tension holding the man’s body taunt could damn near be felt in the air. Something was definitely wrong. “John? Are you okay, like _actually_ okay? You mentioned something earlier about you having a freak out like the rest of us.” He shook his head. “I haven’t noticed, not really. Heh. Seems I’ve just been crying a lot. Not very manly, huh?”  
  
John huffed. “You’re trying to lure me into talking.”  
  
“Is it working?”  
  
John shrugged, and smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. “Greg, I have to be honest with you. I haven’t been okay since this shit began. I’ve been fine. But okay?” He laughed bitterly. “It’s Afghanistan all over again, except I have a bunch of civilians to take care of now, and I don’t think I can do it - ”  
  
Greg shook his head. “We’ll be fine, John.”  
  
“ - I don’t think we are going to make it. Mycroft is relying on me to keep Sherlock and...you, for some reason... safe.” He slapped his forehead. “Yeah, that didn’t come out right.”  
  
Greg laughed. “No, I get it. Why would Mycroft want me safe, too? I wasn’t even sure he actually believes I exist, other than to mediate between Sherlock and the MET.”  
  
“Whatever, it doesn’t matter, really, because I can’t promise him that." John huffed. "I can’t promise anyone that. But we need to leave. The electricity won’t last, and any chance we have of getting to safer ground is one I will take. But not everyone will make it, Greg.”  
  
The ex-cop nodded. “It’s okay, John - “  
  
“No, it’s FUCKING NOT!”   
  
Lestrade jumped as the doctor hit the roof with his fist.   
  
John breathed deeply, and let it out. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “No. It’s not okay, Greg. I lost my entire fucking team in Maywand. Everyone. I saw them die. My friends, Greg. And while I was attempting to save just one of them, I fucking got shot.” His breath quickened, and his hands clutched the rifle. “I can’t guarantee a fucking thing. I’ve never been able to. I’ll do my best, but fuck, Greg, I’m human, I can’t save everyone. I just can’t. I will do my very best, but don’t fucking tell me it’s okay to lose people, because it’s NOT.” He fell silent.  
  
Greg...really didn’t know what to say to that. He pursed his lips. He squinted. Apparently, he didn’t have to say anything, because John laughed again, and this time it didn’t sound so...heartbreaking.   
  
“Sorry. I’m sorry. Really, I am. I just...needed to get something out. Um...that went better than I expected, actually. Much better than I thought it would. At least this time I didn’t break anything.” John looked over at his friend, and Greg could make out the wet rims of the man’s eyes. The tears hadn’t fallen, but they could. “I’m fine, now.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Greg winced.   
  
John nodded. “Yep. I’m gonna have to be, aren’t I?”  
  
John turned back to the scope of the sniper rifle, and Greg wanted to do nothing more than rage against this entire fucking situation.  
  
 _Tell me again why everybody’s lives depend on two men who could use a break? Isn’t their lives hard enough as it is?_ He shook his head and settled back down for the night.  
  


  
  
  
“So, you found these DVD’s in John’s trunk?”Sally sat down with a bowl of carrot sticks that she cut up.   
  
Sarah nodded and moved closer to Molly to make room for the cop, shifting John’s beret on her lap. All three girls fit on the couch rather well, if a bit snug. “Yeah. Pretty sure they are videos from Afghanistan.”  
  
“What if it’s porn?” Molly giggled at Sally’s suggestion, and sipped her beer.  
  
Sarah laughed. “Then I guess we are watching porn tonight.”  
  
That made them double over in laughter.  
  
“Dear God, what if it is? What if it’s, like, fisting, or something horrid?” Sally picked up the remote and pressed ‘play’.   
  
“Or golden showers!”   
  
Sarah groaned and play-punched Molly. “That is disgusting. Granted, urine is sterile, but yuck all the same.”  
  
The television screen lit up the room in a soft light, then suddenly there was a face. The women jumped, and Molly squeaked.

* * *

 

_“This thing on?” the face (a young man with golden hair and bright green eyes) said as he tapped what had to be the camera lens._

_“Yes, Hamilton, jeez, back away from the fuckin’ camera already!” Somebody shouted off-screen, and Hamilton backed away, smirking._

* * *

 

The girls were treated to a chair, set right in the middle of a canvas tent. Cots surrounded the filmed area.   
  
Makeshift barracks.  
  
Afghanistan.  
  
“Oh, wow,” Molly breathed.

* * *

 

_“Alright, Hammond, you first!”_

_“Oh, Jesus fucking shit, really?” A man in combat trousers, desert camo boots, and a tan tee-shirt walked into view and plopped down in the folding chair. He sighed deeply, as if this was a trial for him, then looked directly at the camera. His chocolate tinted eyes were soft, inviting...but dark._

_“Hello. My name is Corporal Matthew Hammond. I am a member of 2 Para, 16 Air Assault, and I am stationed in Afghanistan. I would like to thank everyone who has sent out care packages. God Bless the Queen.” He blinked. “Are they going to edit this shit?”_

_“Yes!”_

_“Fine. McCarter, you’re up!”_

_They continued on like this, random bitching and recording audio for something for the British public, obviously. After McCarter, there was Hunter, O’Reilly, Knowles, Crabb, Pratt, Harper (the medic; she made absolute certain that everyone watching knew she was not partner to any of these hooligans)...and then a short scuffle and clamor as McCarter, a dark haired beauty of a man, hollered “Hey, Boss!” And just like that, John Watson walked onto the screen. A young, golden haired, tanned, stunningly fit John Watson._   
  
_Boss._

* * *

 

Sarah looked at Sally. Sally looked at Molly.  
  
“He’s...these guys aren’t medics.” Molly whispered.  
  
“Nope.” Sally turned back to Sarah. The blonde doctor only shrugged. This was news to her, as well.

* * *

 

_“What the bloody green fuck do you gits want?” John was saying._

_“We’re doing that recording for the care packages.”_

_“Oh. Well, then, that’s something. That’s fine, then.” John bent down in front of the screen, his dog tags hanging out of his shirt and his face level with the lens of the camera. “What do I say?”_

_“Whatever, I guess.”_

_John blinks. “Thanks.”_

_“No, you’ve got to say more than that, damn it!” Laughter bubbled up in the background._

_John joined in. “Okay, like what, then, Hammond?”_

_“I said my name, rank, unit, and something I enjoyed from my care package.” Harper said as she lit a cigarette._

_“Okay. I’m Sergeant John Hamish Watson, 2 Para, 16 Air Assault, and I’m these hyenas’ squad commander.” He smirked at the camera as everyone in the background groaned and yelled good-naturedly at him. “We here at Gibraltar appreciate the little reminders of home that you all sent. Oh, and Harry? Harry Watson, my lovely darling sister...if you are watching this, and you’d better be, you know that box of tampons you sent me as a joke? Thank you. They work well for plugging bullet wounds.”_

* * *

 

Sarah closed her eyes. “Oh, jeeze. I’m dating a dork.”  
  
The screen went blank.  
  
“What that it?” Sally reached for the remote again, just as the t.v. came alive again.

* * *

 

_This time, they were all outside, smoking and laughing next to a massive vehicle. The armored vehicle had paint missing in spots, and the metal in front was damaged a bit. Whoever held the camera walked out (rather hobbled out, considering the jarring of the camera) to the guys._

_The soldiers were covered in blood._

_They were rather dusty, too._

_“Hey!” Hammond (still in full combat kit) turned and waved at the camera. “How’s the leg, Harpy?”_

_“Better.” The camera jostled and pointed towards the ground, then the medics heavily bandaged left leg._

_“Tell the kiddies at home what happened, hero!” McCarter and Pratt yelled simultaneously._

_“Not a hero, boys.” 'Harpy' huffed._

_“Yeah, you are.”_

_That was John._

_The camera moved quickly, and they were looking at Marixa Harper. “This woman spotted a live grenade rolling behind us in the middle of a firefight and grabbed Hunter - here, look at this fucker.” John angled the camera around to look at the huge man. “That fucker. That’s Hunter. Big Scottish arsehole, yeah? Now look at Harpy.” The camera swung again, and the comparatively small medic came into view. “This pretty little fucker." She flipped John off. "9 stone soaking.” John turned the camera onto his face. A bloody gash ran along one cheekbone. The bulk of the blood had been wiped away._

* * *

 

Sarah winced. That looked like it hurt.

* * *

 

_“Harpy here picks Hunter up by the bloody back of his armour and tosses the fucker like he’s a child, then leaps onto my back. All three of us were the closest to the blast.” He smirked. “Of course, my dumb fuckin’ arse, I didn’t have my cover on, because the thing wouldn’t sit on my head without this strap.” He bent over and picked up his combat helmet, and turned it so that the broken - no, cut and slightly bloody - strap could be seen. “Oh, and shrapnel from the IED that drove us to ground and started the whole bloody thing to begin with did this. And this.” He pointed belatedly at his cheek. “So Harpy is the only reason Hunter and I are alive. So, hero? Yes. Here.” He handed the camera back to the medic. “So who’s going to help me clean and repaint this fucking Mastiff? And by help me, I mean who is going to volunteer to do it."_

* * *

 

The DVD stopped playing about thirty minutes later.   
  
Sarah slipped a finger under her eye to catch an errant tear.   
  
“Holy shit.” Sally murmured as she leaned forwards to put the empty bowl on the coffee table.  
  
“Yeah.” Molly collected the empty beer bottles and threw them... “Wait, we can use these.”...put them next to the sink to be rinsed. She thought better of it and actually started to rinse them.  
  
“Good Lord.” Sarah clutched the maroon beret in her hands. Oh, John. John.  
  
Most of the disc had  been hilarious, bringing the girls to tears of mirth (and one memorable incident with a pregnant camel made Sally fall off the couch, she was laughing so hard. “I am so going to just walk up to John and say ‘I don’t understand toes.’” “Oh, God, Sally, no, not until I tell him we saw this video!”). But the last video...maybe whomever took the video was supposed to delete it. She didn’t know. But all she did know is they now knew how John would break, if he did.  
  
It had been horrible.  
  
It didn’t show what had happened. But the aftermath...

* * *

 

_John walking - no, limping - out of a medical bay, his BDUs painted red and brown. His hands were stained dark. He had concrete dust and blood congealing into a crust surrounding an contused abrasion on his left temple. His dirty face had tear tracks running down._

_The squad, milling around outside, minus Hamilton._

_Harper, as bloody as John, sobbing into Pratt’s shoulder. He had his arms around the small woman as her body shook, and he cried into her hair. Hammond and McCarter had the haunted look that young men who’d seen too much had. O’Reilly sat on the ground and picked at his boots. Knowles chain smoked another cigarette, after offering John one. Crabb stared off into space from where he’d leaned up against the wreck that had to have been Hamilton’s pack. Hunter flipped off the camera and went around the side of the building._

_No one knew who was behind the camera. Whomever it was followed John as he walked to his quarters without his men and witnessed the complete and utter meltdown of a man pushed over the brink. Most people were sane enough and smart enough to stay away, but Harper pushed through the flap of the tent and handed him a radio._

_“Yeah, you’re gonna want to talk to him, sir.” She had a devilish look on her face, and John looked at her with a horribly vicious grin._

_“That him?”_

_“Yep.”_

_The person on the other end got an earful about how certain people can’t follow a desperate ‘direct fucking order’, how his men ‘ were still in the motherfucking building, why are you fucking mortaring a building that had already been cleared’ and ‘How is the fact we were surrounded by Taliban any fucking different than any other shitting day,_ we are always surrounded by Taliban you son of a fucking camel cunt.  _Khayayet falge shawa!_ ’ _. He’d finally thrown the radio, and then a glass globe paperweight after it (that shattered and frightened a secretary), then twisted at the waist to dent the side of an industrial metal filing cabinet with his fist. He didn’t turn back around to growl “Get that fucking camera out of here or it’s next.”_

* * *

 

Sarah sighed. They could watch the next one, but she was afraid of what she’d find on it. So she simply shut the disc player off and flicked the television off, and started filling empty clips. She couldn’t hear any gunfire from outside, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t need them.

  
  


  
  
“Just what exactly is going on, Sherlock? First, massive waves of zombies. Now, nothing.”  
  
Sherlock tossed a stone across the road, hitting the brick facade of the building across from them. The noise echoed down the street in both directions. “I’m not entirely sure. I think it may be something to do with wanting to stay with their own kind, perhaps? Some sort of... herd mentality?” He shrugged. “I have no expertise in this area.”  
  
“Did you ever watch any zombie movies?”  
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Oh, god no. Those horrid things? Never.” He cocked his head. “Although, ‘28 Days Later’ seems to be rather accurate. Perhaps I could give that one a look.”  
  
Tim nodded and picked at his jeans. “Yeah, don’t. We are pretty much living it right now. So, we are leaving?”  
  
“Yes. I don’t think the electricity is going to last much longer. I suppose we should be glad no one has insulin-dependent diabetes or a heart condition that requires nitroglycerin. They would be dead.” He lifted his head in a sudden panic. “Oh, dear. Mrs. Hudson!” He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. She picked up on the fifth ring.   
  
“Yes, dear?”  
  
“You don’t have a heart condition, do you?”  
  
“I don’t believe so, Sherlock, dear.”  
  
“You don’t take nitroglycerin?”  
  
“No, honey.”  
  
“Insulin?”  
  
“Oh, heavens no. Why?”  
  
“Just making sure.”  
  
“Ok. You have fun out there, now.”  
  
Sherlock hung up. “Well, that is a relief.”  
  
“Safe?”  
  
“Yes.” He pushed the phone back into his trouser pocket. “As I was saying, we will be leaving, possibly by the end of the week, if not sooner. I’m waiting for the address from my brother. It will be a safe house, hopefully somewhere out in the country, where there aren’t as many people. Cities are death traps in the event of a massive emergency such as this.”  
  
“You got that right.” Tim looked at Sherlock. “Hey. This might be too...personal. Just stalk away if it is. Even throw a diseased brain at me, but...do you...like John?”  
  
Sherlock peered at Tim. “How do you mean? He’s my friend.” And so much more now.  
  
“I mean, _like_ him like him.” He gestured with his hands.  
  
Sherlock looked down at his feet, unsure how to answer that question. “Perhaps? It’s not normally... I’m not...I don’t, normally ' _like_ like' people. Truth be told, I normally don’t even like people in general. I couldn’t be bothered. So I don't know. Is it okay that I do or don’t?”  
  
“Yeah. I guess. I don’t really care, and no one else does. It’s just, that little display of yours. When you were checking out his scars? Pretty obvious.”  
  
“I was looking at his scars and tickling him.”  
  
“Tickling? Nope, not obvious at all.” Tim laughed. “You don’t like him one bit.”  
  
Sherlock scrunched his nose. “I’d assumed that he would find it amusing.”  
  
“Did he?”  
  
After a moment, Sherlock smiled fondly. “I believe so.”  
  
“Then it’s good! It’s okay, this whole world has gone to shit, who gives a rat’s arse anymore who sleeps with who or what or when or how! I’m going to make a declaration, right now.” Anderson stood up. “Gender no longer applies in this world. Orientation no longer matters. We are the last fucking humans left on this planet. Everybody fucks! Oral for EVERYONE!” He shouts the last word, and Sherlock just...loses it. He collapses to his knees and holds his stomach, laughing until he’s gasping and hoarse.  
  
From above them, on the roof, Greg shouted down, “NOT ON MY FUCKING BED YOU DON’T, ANDERSON!”


	15. Something Happened to My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein John and Sarah prepare to head out on an adventure, Mycroft really doesn't like his situation, and sequins happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Chapter 15 (technically Chapter 14, but what the hell?). 
> 
> Warning: Minor Character Death. Guys, it's a zombie fic. People die in zombie fics. It's what people DO! So if you can't handle it...I'm sorry.
> 
> I blame Provacatrixxx (dear GOD I hope I got that name right, that is one HELL of a name) for the Sequins and Mango. Mostly sequins. 
> 
> And if you need a reason why Sherlock would need DIRECTIONS...the explanation will be forthcoming in later chapters, because no doubt the others will ask the same question.
> 
> Alright, once more, into the breech!

  
The night had been rather uneventful, actually. So much so that John was able to grab a solid four hours of sleep without being woken once by any gunfire at all. Greg kept watch while the man slept, and stayed awake until dawn. Not one zombie graced their street.  
  
 _There’s no way that could be good._ Greg shook his head sadly. Imagine that: when NOT seeing a zombie could be construed as a bad thing. But it was true nonetheless. Massive crowds of zombies, and then suddenly nothing? When they walked down to the flats for breakfast (Bless Mrs. Hudson’s purple shoes, there was CHERRY BLOODY PIE! And Sherlock actually stole two pieces for himself.), Sherlock had a possible explanation.   
  
“They might travel in packs. It could be pack mentality, or herd mentality. Either way, it makes them easy to spot, but highly dangerous. Highly.” He picked at his fingernails as he trimmed and filed them ( _“Less chance of injury by ripping one of the long nails fighting a zombie. Less chance of infection,”_ he said. John completely agreed with him on this.) John sat down at the table with Sherlock and Sarah.  
  
Greg grabbed a beer and retreated to the upstairs bedroom with his piece. Everyone downstairs could hear him. “Tim? Sally? OUT. I need a bed. You two need to stop snogging. And there is cherry pie downstairs for breakfast. We are all adults here, and the world ended. We can have whatever we want for breakfast now.”  
  
“Even ice cream?” Anderson snarked.  
  
“Rocky bloody road with whipped cream if you want, you jammy bastard. Just tell me you didn’t get a leg over on this bed, please...”  
  
John giggled. “I have.”  
  
Sherlock snorted. “I’ve heard you.”  
  
Sarah gasped. “Oh. My. God. You two. Married. Seriously.”  
  
“Yeah. I think we are.” John grinned.  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “I am NOT wearing a ring.”  
  
“I don’t even know what you guys are talking about, and I don’t want to know.” Sally had a brush in hand and was attempting to tame her wild mane of hair. Sherlock stared at her for a second, and finally sighed. “Oh, come here.” He got up and pointed at his chair. “I’m going to be right back. Don’t. Move. Have pie, it’s delicious, and does not remind me of zombie brains.” He disappeared down the hall.   
  
Sally stared at John. “Ok. Fine. Alright. What were you guys talking about?”  
  
“Sherlock and I are married, according to your boss and my boss.”  
  
“Well, you sure act like it sometimes.”  
  
“All the time.” Sarah smirked.  
  
“Ok, all the time.” Sally shook her head. “What is Sherlock going to do to me?”  
  
“I haven’t the slightest clue.”  
  
Sherlock reappeared with...”What the hell is that?” John couldn’t believe it.  
  
Sherlock has a straightener.  
  
Sarah and Sally both sputtered into their coffees.   
  
Sherlock grinned. “I’ve got heat treatment spray and an iron. You will have straight hair. I’ve decided this, it will be done. You look like a poodle right now. It’s annoying and distracting.”  
  
“No, Sherlock!” Sally squealed. “I like my hair, there’s a reason I don’t straighten it. You can’t do it with an iron, you need relaxers. Get away from me with that thing.”  
  
Sherlock snapped the iron shut. His grin grew until he looked manic. Sally screamed. And the chase began.  
  
John and Sarah just stared as the two detectives chased each other around the small kitchen.   
  
“Ok. This is getting weird.” John muttered around a bite of pie.  
  
“I agree.” Sarah sipped her coffee.  
  
Anderson poked his head around the corner. “What the hell is going on here?”  
  
“TIM SAVE ME HE’S GOING TO STRAIGHTEN MY HAIR!” Sally shrieked, and hid behind him. Sherlock stood in the middle of the kitchen and laughed. Tim started laughing. Finally, John and Sarah joined them.  
  
  
  
  
The morning’s comedic relief made the news that John and Sarah were going out to get supplies a little easier to deal with, Sherlock decided. John’s instructions were very easy to understand.

 

One: Pack the beef jerky, protein bars, yogurt bars, tea, instant coffees, nuts and water bottles.

Two: Everyone clean the guns. All the guns. Make sure you fill every. Bloody. Clip. Pack most of them.

Three: All fresh food needs to be eaten or packaged to take with. Oranges can be taken with. Cheese can not unless it’s shelf stable ( _“Yes, Tim, you can have your spray cheese.” “What is God’s name is ‘spray cheese’?” “Sherlock, you don’t want to know.”_ ) _**NO MILK.**_

Four: Keep phones on. We will call if something happens.

Five: If something does happen, wait for the address to the safe house and LEAVE.

Six: DON’T BE STUPID.

And Seven: Pack smart.

  
John printed out a diagram of what would go into a ‘bug out bag’ and hung it in the kitchen. “Do not deviate from this, guys. Carry only what you can. Keep it light. Any unnecessary items, just leave behind.”  
  
Sally raised her hand. “Does that include the animals?” Molly’s eyes widened. John shook his head.   
  
“No, Sally. The animals are coming with. Believe it or not, they are actually useful. They can sense, or smell, the zombies from further off than we can. We keep the animals. Though, Molly, we need leashes. Do you have a leash for the cat, and cat food?”  
  
Molly nodded. “Yes.”  
  
“Okay, consider that part of your kit, then.”  
  
After everyone dispersed (Sally still trying to fix her hair), Sherlock cornered John.   
  
“John. Do you remember when this began? You and Molly went out for supplies and almost died?”  
  
John gestured to his forearm, which had finally started healing. It didn’t really hurt as much anymore. He hadn’t noticed it in a while. Very good sign. “Yeah. I’m going to remember it for the rest of my life, however short that may be.”  
  
“Remember what I said?”  
  
John squinted. “Yeah.” He nodded, slowly at first, but then it picked up. “Yes. Yes I do. Sherlock, I really need you to stay here. Greg and Tim are good on the assault rifle, but you will be the only one that can fire that monster L118.”  
  
“I trust Tim. He has incredible aim for being an idiot.”  
  
“OY! I heard that! Jackass!” Tim yelled from the couch. Sherlock smirked.  
  
“No, Sherlock. I need you here.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
John sighed. _I need you safe at home. That is the only way I can protect you. I need you safe from harm for just one more day._ “Sherlock, just...trust me on this.”  
  
“John, this isn’t just a trip to St. Barts in a vehicle. None of the cars on this street have petrol. You’ll have to walk. You plan on going to a Tescos Extra, correct? The nearest one is in Southall. That is a little over twenty two kilometers away, John. Don’t be stupid. That will take all day, and that doesn’t include dealing with the zombies, or whatever humanity is left.” Sherlock gripped his friend’s shoulders, and studied him.   
  
_Tense. Stressed. Very stressed. He’s worried - why worried? Oh. He most likely would not be able to watch both Sarah and I...worried one of us will die or get turned or get lost or separated from him...he’s not sure who he’d choose. No. He knows who he’d choose. And he’s afraid of what that implies._  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
“Alright, John. I’ll stay behind. But please, phone if something goes wrong.”  
  
John blinked. _Obviously unsure of how he’d won._ “Uh, ok. Alright. Thank you, Sherlock.”  
  
  
  
  
Sarah strapped the bat onto the side of the small rucksack John had given her to use, and counted the magazines stuffed into the pouches of the load bearing vest she wore. He handed her another bag, then tightened the vest over his own body. Sarah couldn’t help but stare. _By God, that man looks amazing in body armor._   
  
“Extra clips and another bag in that, Sarah. I’ll carry the bulk of the supplies, so don’t worry about that.” He gestured towards his bag, which was much larger, full and closed. “There’s going to be a reservoir inside the bag. It’s called a Camel-Bak. Just take it over to the tap and fill it up. See this little bite valve?” He fingered the valve on the end of the hose coming out the top of the rucksack. She nodded. “All you have to do is bite down and suck on it. Instant water.” He smiled and hugged her tightly. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Okay?”  
  
Sarah smirked. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you either.”  
  
John only closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. “I love you.”  
  
Sherlock bumped into John’s hip with his own. “Oh, blergh.” John broke into giggles. “Samples, John.” He shoved a stack of Petri dishes into the soldier’s hands. “I want soil samples.”  
  
“Yes, yes, good. I’ll get them, if feasible. Anything else?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head, and grabbed John’s shoulders. “Don’t be idiots and do something irrevocably stupid out there. Stick to the main roads. Less people, and the rabies virus makes its victims photosensitive, so the zombies will be sticking to the shadows of alleys and the lee of buildings. And -”  
  
“Sherlock.” John smiled broadly and squeezed his detective’s hands. “Yes. We will be careful out there.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Good luck with the chip and pin machine, John.”  
  
John giggled.  
  
  
  
  
  
Mycroft looked down through the window. From his vantage point on the second to top floor of the hotel where they had holed up for the night, he could see the creatures - zombies - roaming on the road below, seemingly unaware that live humans were in the high rise. He sincerely hoped it would stay that way. He shook his head and groaned. _How the hell are we going to get to the bridge now?_ He turned away from the glass and looked at his companions. Andrew glared back at him, and the boy holding the suitcase - Thadius. Thadius’ shock-glazed eyes took in nothing. He stared blankly into the middle distance. Mycroft sighed deeply.  
  
 _Pedestrian. Two separate typical responses to crisis. I really enjoy how I’ve managed to gather around me a precise snapshot of the human race._ Not.  
  
He took his phone out, and texted the map coordinates to his brother. _At least one of us will make it there. Most likely, it will be Sherlock, at the rate I seem to be making progress..._ At this errant thought, he felt a bit ill, but shook it off as he heard Andrew huff his displeasure. He looked at Anthea, who took her mobile away from her ear.   
  
“Sir, the power will not last much longer. Will that be their cue to head to the house?”  
  
 _Bless this woman, for she always keeps her mind on the task at hand, no matter the crisis._ Mycroft smiled as warmly as he could at his personal assistant.  
  
“Yes. They won’t be there for too long. If I have read the good doctor correctly, he should be making preparations to leave as we speak . That man is nothing if not resourceful, a quality that now doubt came in high demand in his field of service.”  
  
Andrew, the thick-headed agent he was, stalked over and bent in. A bid for dominance, since Mycroft was the taller of the two. “Sir, I told you not to send those.”  
  
Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the man. “Do you have a brother, Agent?”  
  
The question caught the man off-guard. “No sir. How is this relevant?”  
  
“Do you have any family at all, Agent?”  
  
“I was a single child, sir. Parents are dead. This is not important -”  
  
“Agent, it is very important.” Mycroft inclined his head and glared at Andrew from beneath his brows, a trick that has never failed the Holmes boys, no matter the size of their opponent. “You do not, nor will you ever, understand why I have done anything so far. You haven’t the slightest clue what I am dealing with right now. So kindly shut the bloody hell up and leave. Me. Be.”  
  
Andrew shut his mouth with a click of the jaw, but Mycroft could see the wheels (rusty as they were) were turning. The words compromised and hazard couldn’t be any clearer if they were lit up in neon colors and painted on the sky.  
  
 _I might have to eliminate him before he decides that I could do more harm than good in this situation._ Mycroft sighed again. _Damn. Too bad he’s very handy with that assault rifle._ He kept his eyes on Andrew, and leaned heavily on his umbrella. “Now, explain to me in clear sentences how we are going to be escaping this place.”  
  
“We have a helicopter on the way to pick us up, sir.”   
  
Mycroft turned to Anthea. Her hands were on her phone - well...not quite a phone much anymore. That thing in her hands had so much circuitry added to it that it could very well take over the world by itself. Nevermind that line of thought. Back to the matter at hand: what she had just said. Or what he thought she said. He wasn’t sure what he’d just heard.  
  
“What?” _Not exactly the most brilliant-sounding of questions, but the mishap can be overlooked. That was most definitely not part of the plan. I wasn’t aware we even had a working helicopter, let alone a pilot. Someone lied to me._ “We have a what?”  
  
“A helicopter, sir.” Anthea looked up from the screen. “When this blows over, you are the only government left, and we need you safe. You are important.”  
  
Mycroft could feel the beginnings of a headache, and a plan, forming in his head. Yes, he did hire this woman for a reason. “I’m to take it we are not going to the Manor anymore?”  
  
“No, sir.” Andrew growled. “We never were. And your friends will be shot on site.”  
  
Mycroft looked at Andrew in askance. “Really, Agent. Do you think me a fool? I would never have my brother _Sherlock Holmes_ step foot into a secure government facility. Remember what happened at Dartmoor? Bond Air? Imagine the secrets he could figure out if we let him loose somewhere _important_.” The agent scowled. “No, I gave him the address of the Holmes Manor, because that is out in the country and certainly the safest spot available. When you told me I would be going to a safe house, I naturally assumed I would actually be going _somewhere safe_.”   
  
“That doesn’t matter now, sir.” The title sounded like a swear word leaving Andrew’s mouth.   
  
Mycroft shook his head,and pinched the bridge of his nose. _Fine. I’ll make my own way there, if necessary._ And he would. There was no doubt about that. The Holmes Manor was the safest place right now, in his opinion. _Thank the stars above Father had shelled out some money for an old castle to fix up to show off._ “Very well then. When will they arrive - “  
  
The words died in his mouth as rumbling moans echoed up the old stone staircase. Thadius nearly fainted dead at the noise. Mycroft could feel his pulse jump. Shit. _Shit shit shit._ He grabbed the bunched material of his umbrella, unlocked the handle, and pulled, revealing the sharp blade of his cane sword, the one holdover from his days in MI-6. Well. One of them. The knowledge of how to use it was another. He sighed. _Just another secret to be had...and lost,_ he thought as Andrew readied the SA80 and stared hard at him once again.  
  
“Enough with the damned staring, Agent Ormond. Yes, I am armed. Yes, I know how to use it.”  
  
“Let me take care of this, sir.”  
  
“Very well. Throw yourself to the wolves, Agent.” Anthea flicked the safety of the PPK in her hands. “We will keep watch in here.”  
  
Andrew gave her a startled look as the first of the improvised explosive devices Mycroft had set up as traps for the hoards blew, sending a shock wave up the stairs. The noise was close to deafening as the second and the third blow too. _They are moving fast. Or...there’s a lot of them. Oh God._ The moans and howling became much louder.   
  
Andrew disappeared down the staircase. A minute later, Mycroft could hear the man open fire with the assault rifle.   
  
The elder Holmes knew it was in vain. Their only avenue of escape if the helicopter failed them was cut off by the very things they sought to escape from. They were essentially trapped. He took a deep breath, and turned to look outside. And of course, the zombies seemed to be able to hear perfectly fine, because now they swarmed around the entrance below.  
  
 _Shit._  
  
“Shit,” he muttered.  
  
He turned to Anthea. Her face still bore the grime and dried blood from the last desperate gamble to escape. She’d pulled her hair into a serviceable ponytail, and the skirt and heels had long been replaced with a pantsuit and flats they’d stolen ( _Stolen! Imagine that. He had never had to steal anything in his life. Sherlock could steal right from underneath your nose...no. Don’t think of him right now_ ) from one of the posher stores along their escape routes. The skirt had been blood soaked, and the heels had long been abandoned in a mad dash for freedom. She noticed his gaze, and turned to meet his eyes. Mycroft nodded at her. He knew what was going to happen.  
  
The idiot.  
  
Andrew stopped firing as the rifle presumably ran out of ammunition, and a second later, the screams began.   
  
The sound of a man being rent apart by blunt fingers, no matter how powerful the extreme amount of adrenalin made them, was like nothing else on Earth. Upon hearing that sort of basal, animalistic agony, a human’s reptile brain takes over. Mycroft gasped, his stomach rolling in terror, and tried to back away. Anthea pushed at his soft abdomen, attempting to force him back. It was no use. He couldn’t help himself. He broke to the stairs and ran down a few steps. He froze dead as he was confronted with a horrific sight.   
  
Arterial spray decorated the grey stone walls. A few of the creatures fought and pulled each other for the choicest bits of Andrew Ormond. Blood coated the stairs below the man’s prone body. His shirt had been ripped open, and the same had been done to his abdomen. Hands reached in and pulled out red, oxygen-rich muscle and moist, ropy intestines and shoved the innards into gaping maws. Mycroft covered his mouth to avoid making the noises he knew would attract...them. This is not the first time they’d come across the things eating someone. It’s not even Mycroft’s first time seeing horrible death. But there was something about watching a man being eaten...while he was still conscious. The sounds burbling out of Andrew’s open - _no, Mary mother of God, jawless oh God the poor man’s jawless... sounded like...oh God._  
  
 _Please pass out._  
  
The creatures dug in, ripping the diaphragm out of the way - Ormond struggles a bit, his arms flailing weakly - to get into the chest cavity. Mycroft backs away slowly, unable to avert his eye for fear of missing a creature moving. He sees the man’s beating heart seconds before it disappears into a blackened mouth. Ormond stops kicking.  
  
 _God damn it. Idiot._  
  
His eyes flicked up to the horror show visages of the ones behind the feeders. Snapping jaws ( _where there were jaws, rather_ ), howls, dripping, blackened blood and gore. They wriggled and pushed, trying to get past the bottleneck. They’d seen him. Somehow. Shit. _SHIT_. He backed up further until he got to the doorway. Anthea was there, at his back, her hand on his shoulder. Comforting.  
  
“Sir.”  
  
Mycroft broke out of his shock and whirled, pushing past her and slamming the door shut. “Ormond is dead. Most likely undead soon. We need to move. We need to get out of here.” He ignored the desperate tint of his words. That should be expected, really. If he didn’t sound like that, he wouldn’t be human, now would he? _Son of a bitch._  
  
“Sir.”  
  
He looked at her. She wasn’t looking at him. Actually, she was looking at his hands. He looked down. How’d his phone end up there? He clutched it tightly in his left hand. Now that he had it out, he knew what he wanted to do, _needed_ to do.  
  
He began dialing.  
  
“Sir.”  
  
He stopped. Anthea held out her hand. “You...”  
  
“Sir, we can’t. You can’t.”  
  
He looked back down at his phone.  
  
“Give me at least this.”  
  
“You can’t, Mr. Holmes.”  
  
 _She’s right. I can’t. No matter what I have to say, there is no guarantee that I can turn the phone off before the creatures bite into me. I can’t do that to him. I can’t do that to the only family I have left. No. No goodbyes for me. Soon, Sherlock will be on his own. He will either succumb or survive. No doubt he wouldn’t call me either way._  
  
Mycroft slipped the phone into Anthea’s hands, and she put it in her pocket.   
  
“We need to get the suitcase to safety. Where is the helicopter?”  
  
“Last known ETA was twenty minutes.”  
  
“How long ago was that?”  
  
Anthea looked up. “Twenty minutes ago.”  
  
Mycroft took a shaky breath. “Damn it. Fine. Alright.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Alright. Grab the boy. We are going to the roof.”  
  
The noises of the zombie horde changed in pitch. Mycroft closed his eyes. Their dinner must be finished.  
  
Or walking.  
  
Anthea ( _oh, my beautiful Anthea_ ) nodded, and looked to Thadius. “Let’s go, sir.”  
  
The boy refused to move. He stared at the door.  
  
“Thadius. We need to go.” Mycroft dropped the sword, took him by the shoulders and shook him hard. His head jerked around, but he didn’t make a sound of protest. He still didn’t budge.   
  
Fists began striking the wooden door. How the hell did Ormond think this was a safe. Bloody. Place? The door shook under the assault, and the moaning grew in volume drastically, and kept rising. He felt like throwing up. He bent down into the young man’s face and tried to get him to look at his face. “Tad. Look at me. Look. We need to leave, we need to get you to safety. Snap out of it!” No luck. Mycroft contemplated smacking the man across the face; always worked with a heavily drugged and disorientated younger brother. “You have got to be - Please move, Thadius!” Mycroft could hear his voice growing hoarse in fear. He slapped the young man. Hard. He still didn’t respond. “Jesus Christ, Tad. Thadius! We need to go. _Now_!”  
  
“Sir, move.”  
  
Mycroft turned to find Anthea with his weapon in her hands. “Anthea, I have no doubts that you can use the Walther. But a sword - “  
  
“We have no time for you to be second guessing me, sir.” She walked to the pair and planted her feet. “Hold out his hand, please.”  
  
The pounding increased.  
  
Mycroft stared at her.  
  
“Anthea. What do you plan - “  
  
“Sir. Now.”  
  
“Ant - “  
  
 _“Mycroft Holmes, please hold out his hand!”_   
  
The tone of her voice brooked no argument. So he stopped trying, and grabbed Thadius’ hand. “I am sorry. I am so sorry, Thadius.” Mycroft was not an idiot, nor did he have a death wish. _The quicker this is, the better._ “I do hope you can hear me, Tad. I need you to come with me, please.” He tugged the arm to full extension. “Please, come with me now. I can keep you safe...”  
  
The sword swung down.  
  
Thadius’ hand separated cleanly at the wrist joint, and the suitcase dropped to the ground.  
  
Mycroft found himself holding a severed hand. His brain took some time to process that. He looked at Thadius. The young man blinked several times and looked down between them, at the space where his hand used to be. He looked back up, into Mycroft’s eyes. It seemed the older man looked into an empty birdhouse, where there was still a nest, but nothing was home. The thought frightened him. Thadius didn’t make a sound. Not one sound. Horrified, Mycroft dropped the hand and squeezed his eyes shut. _Why didn’t he scream?_ He felt an urgent hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Mr. Holmes. He’s not here anymore. Thadius is gone. He’s somewhere better, somewhere in his head. We need to go.”  
  
The roaring in his ears slowly morphed into the roaring of the zombies. As his awareness returned and he remembered where he was, he turned. The door obviously was not going to hold. He bent over at the waist and threw up. Just once, just enough to empty his stomach of the meager crackers he’d eaten as soon as they had gotten to this deathtrap. He wiped his mouth with the back of his bloody ( _how’d that - oh._ ) hand, and stood upright once again. Anthea had the suitcase and the umbrella. The handle had been replaced.  
  
“I. I do hope you cleaned the blade thoroughly before sheathing it, Anthea.”  
  
She cocked her head and watched him. “I did, sir.”  
  
He straightened his suit jacket, his lips curling into a moue of disgust and a small bit of horror at the amount of blood on his front. “Let’s get to the roof.” His throat felt very raw from the stomach acid, and he swallowed, trying to rid himself of the aftertaste. She handed him the umbrella, and they moved across the room to the door not being beaten down by the pack of zombies. Anthea had her pistol at the ready once again, and Mycroft opened the door... and looked down.   
  
All the way down. A door to nothing. The fire escape is gone. Well, he's been in worse situations.  
  
“In the words of a man I very much admire... we’re fucked.” Mycroft refused to let the shakes begin. He was going to die like a man. He looked back at Thadius, who had slipped to the floor. He still stared at the inner door, the one that - “Jesus Christ. Is it actually bowing?”  
  
“Yes, sir. And I believe I have found the exit.” Anthea had her head and half her body out the dead end door. She had her head cocked up, and she looked to the left.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“A ladder.”  
  
Mycroft groaned. “God, I hate old hotels with a useless fire escape. It will do. Go. Give me the briefcase and go. I will be right behind you.”  
  
She did as he told her, leaving the case on the floor and turning her body in the doorway, reaching out with her right hand as she held the frame with her left. She grunted in a decidedly unfeminine way as she grabbed the ladder. Then she reached out with her right leg - the elder Holmes steadying her with a hand on her rear - and caught the bottom rung. It was simple after that to pull the rest of her body onto the ladder and make her way up to the roof. Her hair whipped around (unfortunately, it was windy) and seemed to block her vision, but she made it up.  
  
CrrrrrrrrrRRACK!  
  
Mycroft turned.   
  
Shit.  
  
They were gaining entrance. Damn it. He snatched up the case and hooked it around his right wrist by the handle, and grabbed his umbrella by the end with his left, making sure the handle was locked in place. As the first zombie came through the mangled door, he leaned out and grabbed the rung much like Anthea. As he got his right foot on the bottom rung, he felt a cold hand on his left leg.   
  
“That is not happening.” He swung the umbrella in a hard arc, slamming the hickory handle into the skull of the undead girl, cracking her head open and sending her body tumbling down to the street below. A quick glance inside revealed Thadius being torn apart. One zombie gripped the boy by the arm and had gnawed down to the bone already. Two others were arms-deep in his abdomen. More creatures pressed through, weakening the door further. Time to go. He swung onto the ladder fully and began to climb.  
  


 

  
  
He reached the roof and nearly collapsed. His body was no longer used to this sort of work, and made it known quite loudly, especially in his legs. He whirled around, searching for the helicopter... where was it? Where was the bleeding helicopter? Dear God. He dropped the case and fisted his hands at his sides, then forced himself to breathe. _Calm down, Mycroft. Calm. Down. Do. Not. Panic. Nothing can be gained from panic. It is a useless emotion. Fear is good. Panic is not. Calm. Down._  
  
He heard the single shots of Anthea’s Walther, the moans of the zombies, the wind blowing through the buildings. He took deep breaths.  
  
Finally, he could hear the rotor noise.  
  
Thank God.  
  


  
  
  
Sherlock perched in his black chair, Gladstone in his lap.   
  
John and Sarah were gone.  
  
He didn’t like being left behind. _Damn it, why didn’t he take me with? Why did he take Sarah? I don’t want to be stuck here with the MET team._ He scratched the pup between the ears with his fingernails until his back leg wiggled. _Dear God, I’m bored already! And I don’t want to waste the electricity by doing experiments...Dear God, listen to me! Why do I even care? Damn it, why didn’t John take me instead? Sarah is perfectly capable of defending the flat! I could have taught her how to fire the rifle. You could have taken me, John._  
  
In reality, there were two main reasons why John didn’t take him. And he knew both of them. Number one, obviously, was protection. He really was the only one other than John who actually could fire that rifle with any degree of accuracy, consistently. The second was the sheer amount of experiments that he wanted to do “out there”. He would easily slow John down, and that wouldn’t be good. Not now. He poked a toe into the black bean bag on the floor in front of the chair. But he was SO BORED!  
  
“ARGH!” He pushed himself out of his pretzel, dislodging the dog (who was so used to this by now that he just grunted, snorted, and toddled off to bother Tobias). Time to bother someone himself.  
  
He barreled down the outer stairs and opened the door to 221A without bothering to knock. “Martha?”  
  
“Oh!” The older lady startled and dropped the small box she’d been carrying. The lid popped off and buttons and sequins of all shapes and colors scattered all over the hardwood floor. “Sherlock, dear, you scared me half to death!”  
  
Sherlock stared at the glittery bits on the floor. They shone in the morning light streaming in through the windows. An ache settled deep inside his chest, the kind of ache that only one thing could cause.  
  
“Martha. My mother is dead.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson’s sad gaze caressed him. “Oh, Sherlock.”  
  
“We would make Mother’s Day cards for her, Mycroft and I. Before father left. No, before he committed suicide. He couldn’t be bothered with us boys, so while mother stayed in bed and got pampered by the staff, our nanny would pull the arts and crafts box from the top shelf in the playroom. I was four, Mycroft was eleven, when the nanny slipped and dropped the whole box on my head. I remember being very upset about that. Mother came down and stood in the doorway, nightdress and all, and laughed at the state I was in, and I began to cry because I certainly didn’t find it all that funny to be a boy covered in glitter and sequins.” He smiled ruefully. “She came to me, lifted me into her arms, and told me I was the best Mother’s Day card a mother could have. I had to point out that I wasn’t a card, I was a boy covered in ‘shiny stuff’.” Sherlock’s laugh barely made it out of his mouth. “God, it was so horrid. I cried for three whole minutes. I can’t remember how many baths I had to take to get all the glitter off of me.”   
  
Martha reached out and grasped Sherlock’s hands and held them in her own.  
  
“My mother is dead now. The last time we spoke was three months ago, over the phone. I told her I wasn’t going to her garden soiree because I had a cold case I was working on, the Grantheim Art Thefts.” A lone tear fell down his cheeks. “It would have been this coming Saturday.”  
  
“Oh, honey.”  
  
“Martha. I will never leave you. I promise you this. I don’t care how much I care about John; if we have to leave you behind, I will not leave your side.”  
  
She gathered him into her arms, all six feet of him, and hugged him for all she was worth. “Oh, my boy, no. You don’t need to do that. I’ll be okay. You need to leave with everyone else. That doctor of yours needs you.”  
  
“We are leaving in a week.”  
  
“That’s good. Here.” She sat him down in the armchair and went into the kitchen for a minute, coming back out with a cold glass of water and a bowl of mango chunks. “Eat. I’ll be back out with a broom and dustpan.”  
  
When she returned, she found the young man on the floor, separating the buttons by color, shape, and size. She sighed and lowered herself to the floor beside him.  
  


  
  
  
Molly stood next to the upper bathroom door, listening to the shower. She knew Tim and Sally were outside, watching for zombies, so it had to be the Inspector. She straightened her t-shirt nervously. She didn’t know why she was so nervous. Well, actually, yeah, she did. She is thirty-two, and Gregory’s... what, forty-seven? Forty-six? She didn’t really know, but she did know that he was over ten years older than her, and married. Well...married. Was married. Is married, but a widower...oh, maybe she really shouldn’t do this, she didn’t need to get a leg over that badly, what if he’s still grieving, what if he didn’t want to... _do that_...with her...  
  
The shower stopped, and she could hear Greg moving around and muttering to himself about ‘fucking zombies’ and ‘leaving’ and how this was most likely the last shower he would ever get. She smiled at his grumbling. _He’s so adorable, like a teddy bear with a badge. A really attractive, fit teddy bear with a nice chest..._  
  
The door opened, and both Molly and Greg froze.  
  
Molly giggled helplessly. Yes. The men were trying to kill her. First, she gets hugged by Greg. Then she accidentally felt up Sherlock, the man she’d had a crush on for years. Then Greg rubs her leg and talks to her. Sherlock actually treats her like a human being. And then John. In nothing but a towel. She hadn’t noticed how breathtaking he was, all bundled up in those jumpers of his. And also on the telly screen last night...but now here was Greg. In a towel. “You know, for being nearly fifty, you have a brilliant body.” _Oh my God, did that actually come out of my mouth? Did I just say that?_  
  
Greg blinked. “Uh, thanks!” He grinned, and Molly knew she was going to sleep with this man. She had confirmation when he held her face in both of his hands and snogged her senseless, letting his towel fall to the floor in a pile. He licked carefully into her mouth, gauging her reactions (all positive, by the way) and stroked her face with his rough fingers.   
  
_God, this man is a kisser!_  
  
They devoured each other’s mouths for a bit, but Molly soon came up for air. “Wow. Uh. Great!”  
  
Greg smirked. “I’ve got stuff in the room. Tim and Sally won’t be in for a while yet, not with John gone, and Sherlock haired off to who the fuck knows where.”  
  
“He’s still in the building.”  
  
“I know that.” Greg’s heated gaze bored into her eyes. “So we’ve got the flat to ourselves for a bit. Want to take advantage of that?”  
  
“Yes. Please, yes!”  
 **  
**


	16. The Will of a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Sarah take a walk, John gets to show off, and they meet some very not nice people, and someone relatively decent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. After a very rough couple of weeks, I got this chapter off the ground. I blame people for making me so obsessed with someone that I just HAD to add him. :) Um... yeah. This is just unadulterated bliss here, for me, so just let me know if I fucked something up :)

As he regained his senses, he noticed a few things. One, he was on his back on the floor of a vehicle, something with a large cargo hold. Two, the men who’d managed to surprise him weren’t in the vehicle with him. Three, he was trussed up like a Christmas goose, in a vehicle. Again.  
  
Jesus, his luck just _had_ to be shit, didn’t it?  
  
He could still hear the men outside of the vehicle he’d been thrown into. They were speaking English, he knew that. Hell, you never know in London. The only thing he couldn’t make out was what the hell they were saying. He strained his ears and listened...at least, he tried to. It didn’t sound like they were going to eat him, nor did it sound like he was going to be killed. Not like it mattered, really. He wasn’t getting out of this fucking thing anytime soon.  
  
Fuck.  
  
He opened his eyes slowly. Ooh, sunlight. Heh. No bag over his head. _'So, not as smart as the Iraqis, then.'_ Stands to reason, though; these arseholes were civvies, after all. Damn it. He rolled his head against the floorboard.  
  
 _‘I can’t believe this. I got caught by these idiots. Losing your edge, here, old man.’_  
  
It really was simple enough. He’d been in Prague (long story short, he’d been following a lead on something) when...whatever the fuck happened in Toronto, well, _happened._ All he could really think about at the time was his daughter, trapped in London with the damned city falling apart around her. He’d driven as fast as he could to London (fuck MI6, it sounded like they had more problems on their hands anyway) only to find the city in absolute ruins. He could understand the mass hysteria. Who hadn’t seen at least one disaster movie in their lives? But whatever it was, it’d happened so fast, so bloody fast, that very few people had time to prepare. He barged into the masses and followed his instincts, searching for someone -anyone- who looked remotely like her.  After a couple days, he’d become very grateful for the Browning stuck into a shoulder holster under his overshirt. There were a few people wandering around who thought they could get one over on him for his borrowed truck. Heh. A couple more days in London went by, and then he caught a glimpse of...them. Whatever the fuck they were. He shuddered in revulsion at the memory of that ragged group of.. _.things_. Just seeing that spurned him into action, and he doubled his search for his daughter, foregoing pretty much anything else. If he’d been paying attention, he wouldn’t be in this situation. Of course, hindsight was pretty much pointless. He had to focus on escaping and continuing his search for Alex. _‘Ruddy well fuck it.’_ His nose began to itch, and he scrunched it up to alleviate the irritation. It only made him sneeze.

“Oi! Shut it in there, arsehole!”  
  
 _‘Oh, fuck you.’_ He thought, angry at himself for getting into this clusterfuck to begin with. _‘Fuck.’_ He slowly flexed his arms, testing the rope - no, baling twine - his wrists were secured with. He grimaced as the fibers dug into his skin. _‘Certainly tight enough._ ’ He wiggled his fingers; no loss of feeling, which was about the best he could hope for at this point. Good. He wriggled and squirmed until he could roll onto his side, and grinned hard when he realized what was in front of his face: a car jack.  
  
“Oh, hello, beautiful.”

 

  
  
The push up Marylebone actually was a lot easier than Sarah figured it would be. The road itself was pretty much clear; there were only a few cars and trucks, abandoned in the flurry to escape the deathtrap the city had become, that they had to dodge around. There weren’t that many dead bodies, either. She said as much to John, who grunted in acknowledgement.  
  
“There really wouldn’t be. Anyone who gets killed by a zombie becomes one.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “But yeah, actually, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of human activity, either. Which could mean one of two things. Either society hasn’t fallen that far yet...”  
  
“Or there really isn’t anyone left.” Sarah’s voice shrank in her throat at the thought that they could actually be the only survivors.  
  
John stopped scanning the length of road ahead of them, lowered the Browning, and walked back towards her. He put a comforting hand on her shoulder and nodded at her. “No. I think we can’t be the only ones. There has to be other clever people out there, no matter what Sherlock seems to think.”  
  
She smiled sadly at him. “You think so?”  
  
“Yeah. So keep that chin up, yeah?” He bumped his hand beneath her jaw and smiled at her. “Hey. Look at me.”  
  
She did.  
  
“We are still alive. We have our friends, we have supplies, and we have smart people who can survive. We’ve made it this far. We’ll make it further.”  
  
“How far, John?”  
  
He blinked at her, and she caught the barest glimpse of a very dark place in his bright blue eyes. In a split second, it was gone. “As far as we need to, okay love?”

She nodded at him. “Okay.”  
  
“Right.” He turned back around and scanned quickly. His hands stayed loose on the pistol grip of his handgun. “Let’s keep moving, then.”  
  
“Yes.” She touched the pouches that held the extra magazines on her vest, and adjusted her grip on the gun in her hands. ‘He’s right. We are still alive. And we will stay that way.’ Bolstered by that, she followed her lover down the road once more. 

 

  
They got to the first junction, the one with the A40 and A5, in good time and no problems to be had. The day was proving to be a hot one, making the trip a bit uncomfortable, so they made a pit stop to recharge and rest a bit. Sarah grabbed herself an energy bar out of her pack and tossed another to John, who ate mechanically and quickly and walked a distance away to keep watch. She watched him double check the second assault rifle (the primary one stayed with the rest of their group at the flat) he had strapped to him. The set of his shoulders and back bothered her. He seemed really tense. Really, _really_ tense. Something was wrong. She wanted to ask, she really did, but there just didn’t seem to be a good time to do so. _‘We are in the middle of a warzone, and I need to focus on what we are doing here, but I just can’t help but to worry about him...’_ She shrugged a bit to relieve the dull ache in her lower neck from the knapsack she carried. _‘He’s under so much stress right now. I can’t believe he hasn’t freaked out yet. It must be so hard, being thrust from one life to another, and now right back to the beginning again, like a giant kick to the chest...oh.’_ She blinked as she realized what she could say to him.  
  
John crouched down to the ground.  
  
“John?”  
  
His head jerked up, and his mouth quirked up at the corners. “Just stretching my legs a bit, love. Something wrong?”  
  
She matched his expression. “I don’t understand toes.”  
  
Quite a few emotions crossed his features at once, none lasting more than a split second. His brain finally settled on a sort of befuddled amusement for a moment, then a startled bark of laughter escaped as his mind finally sorted out the memories that were unearthed by that sentence.  
  
“Oh my God. You...you _saw that?_ ” He kept laughing as he sank to his rear on the tarmac. “That. That was possibly the most painful and humiliating moment of my career! That damned camel cow. Hell, Muhammed didn’t have her tied down like he said, how the hell was I supposed to deal with that?” He wiped at his eyes. “Oh, God, that was horrible.”  
  
Sarah couldn’t keep the grin off her face as the tension leaked from his frame.  
  
Once he got his giggles under control, he breathed out a sigh. “Who else watched the video with you?”  
  
“Uh, Sally and Molly.”  
  
“Sure, yeah. I saw the discs on top of my trunk earlier. I guess I figured you would want to see what was on them.” He shrugged. “Nothing too scandalous, I hope?”  
  
Sarah tamped down the memory of John covered in someone else’s blood. “Nope. Not too bad. We did see a very interesting wrestling match in the Helmand River, though.”  
  
John’s eyes widened. “Uh, the one with Hunter and Hammond...or...?”  
  
“You and Harper.”  
  
“Oh.” John’s face turned beet red. “That was not what it looked like, really.”  
  
“Oh, really?”  
  
John started to laugh again at Sarah’s mock incredulous tone. “No, mum. Completely innocent. I didn’t mean to take her top off. It just...sort of...fell off?”  
  
Now they both were laughing. It was a joke of course; the clip Sarah was talking about was really nothing more than the squad trying to set up some sort of tow line across the river for an Afghani tribe. Since Harper and John had been the smallest people on the team, they got tasked with climbing on the shoulders of the bigger soldiers. One thing (water) lead to another (slippery when wet) and Harper had fallen off of Hunter’s shoulders and landed on top of John. That tackle turned into a friendly bout of wrestling, and nothing got done that day.  
  
“Do you want to talk about any of it?”  
  
John locked his gaze on her, his expression curious. “Sure. Yeah, it’s mostly funny or idiotic things...oh.” He paused. “Oh. Yeah, that. I’d rather -”  
  
Sarah held up her hands. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
John mimicked her, only with his left hand. His right stayed wrapped around his gun. “Oh, no, no, love. I’m saying I’d rather tell the stories on the move. We need to get rolling here if we are going to make Tescos before mid-evening.” He cocked his head in that disarming way of his and smirked. That combo never failed to soften her heart a bit. _‘How could a man like him end up...so dangerous?’_ “How’s that sound?”  
  
She felt so relieved. “Yeah. That sounds great.”  
  
  
  


Grunt. Squirm. _Scratch-scratch-scratch._ Grunt.

“Come on, you son of a bitch.”  
  
He squirmed and moved his bound arms horizontally over the sharp bit he’d found on the jack, trying to keep the noise down to a bare minimum so the idiots outside of what he now knew was a Land Rover. He could feel the tension slacken with each pass over the metal.  
  
“God damned twine. Itchy shit.” He grunted again and shifted his shoulders to get a better angle, only to receive a sharp jolt of pain as he scraped against a rough patch in the cargo mat. Sweat rolled down his tanned brow and dripped onto the floor. His shirt was soaked through at the back and chest. God only knows what he smelled like at this point. He closed his eyes for a moment. _‘Damn, it’s getting hot in here.’_ The temperature steadily rose as the sun beat down through the windows, and it seemed he could feel every bloody degree. _‘You’d think I would be used to this by now, but damn it, isn’t London supposed to be cold?’_ He snapped the lids back open and redoubled his efforts. _‘I’m going to broil in this fucking thing before I get this -'_ The twine snapped on the beginning of the push down, and the force he put behind it drove the soft inside of his left arm into the jagged edge on the jack.  
  
“Bleeding fuck,” he muttered. He pulled his arms around, ignoring the protests his shoulders filed through his nerves to his brain, and pulled the twine off his reddened and raw wrists. Yeowch. Great. The gouge in his arm bled, but not horribly. It’ll keep, though he’d want to clean it later. At least the jack wasn’t a rust factory. He rubbed his hands together and took stock of his current situation. He still had all of his clothes (a plus), one knife (possibly), and a handy garrote thanks to the baling twine. He shoved that into the back pocket of his jeans. He did a quick pat-down. Relatively uninjured, though the back of his head throbbed a bit. He felt for blood (found it) and made sure everything else was intact (it was). All in all, a good day for him. He took a moment to breathe, and noticed the silence. He cocked his head. Yep. Not a sound.  
  
Huh. “This might be easier than I thought.”  
  
He popped his head up and looked out the rear windscreen.  
  
Not a soul in sight.  
  
He squinted his eyes and spotted a radio sitting on a wooden crate, next to a... “Jesus _sheepshaggin’_ Christ. Sometimes I’m really glad most criminals are completely braindead.”  
  
After checking the view out of the other windows for signs of life, he opened a door and crawled out, expecting his already shitty luck to throw a fast one his way. No one tried to shoot him, but the breeze caressed his damp skin, making him nearly orgasmic with the pleasure of it. Once out of the Rover, he looked around for humans and... the _things._ He refused to say the word, _that word_ that had been blinking on and off at the back of his brain for the last week or so. The last time he checked, ‘Night of the Living Dead’ sat firmly in the fiction section of the movie rack at Tescos. He didn’t see anything moving, thankfully, so he stood to his full height and stretched, pulling his body back into shape after having his tall frame crammed into that small space. Vertebrea thunked and popped back into place, and every bleeding joint he possessed took an immediate dislike to the stretch.  
  
He was free. Fantastic. Now, back to the hunt. He had to find his little girl. He walked to the crate and grabbed the radio and his Browning, checking the load as he walked away. _'The truck's gone, God only knows what they've done with it... I'm sure I'll find some sort of wheels sitting around with a full tank of gas some...where...'_

He halted after a couple yards.

“Oh, Jesus fuckin’-" He slapped his forehead, turned on his heel, and jogged back to the Rover. He threw open the driver’s door and checked for keys. Nothing. That's fine. He looked underneath the steering column for the wires, and attempted to hotwire the SUV...nothing. Ok, not so fine. He winced, and checked the light controls - “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me. Of course the lights were left on, leaving no god damned juice in the battery, you fucking idiots! God. _Damn._ It.” He shook his head, and walked away, muttering under his breath as he left the spot behind.  
  


  
  
“And I told Hammond that if he ever bothered to get me another present from Kabul, he could get me one of those shemaghs. So he did. He got me three.”  
  
“Sure beats the flu, yeah?”  
  
John chuckled. “I still had him cleaning the barracks for a good week because of it. I mean, really? I had to go on patrols in a ruddy desert with the blasted flu thanks to him.”  
  
“I really couldn’t imagine going out to fight while my body was trying to kill me.”  
  
“It really wasn’t fun, that’s for sure.”  
  
They walked until they reached the B340 in a companionable silence. Sarah took this time to really watch John. He kept his eyes roving, scanning near and far, up and down buildings, left and right, alleyways and streets. His head never stopped moving. He even turned three hundred sixty degrees to see behind them. The Browning in his hands stayed at a low ready, finger resting on the trigger guard. His body seemed to thrum with tension and readiness, ready to react in moments to a threat. He walked with a rolling step, along the outsides of his feet, quietly and quickly; shifting angles and positions as his gun swung around so that he never had to stop moving. Sarah couldn’t help but feel a slow boil beginning in her body in response to this...man. _‘Oh, God, I’m hopeless.’_ Instead of letting her more carnal thoughts run away with her, she focused on his feet and tried to imitate his movements. She lost her balance twice, tripped on one of her shoelaces, and nearly fell into a subcompact car. John turned his head to look at her.  
  
“You alright?”  
  
She blushed furiously with dismay and embarrassment. “Uh, yeah. I’m great. Fine.”  
  
He chuckled a bit. “It’s not as easy as I make it look, huh?”  
  
She took a moment to process that. Crap, he noticed her imitating him. Her blush grew even redder. “Not really.”  
  
“It takes a bit to get used to. Here, see?” He walked back and stood alongside her. “Heel first, roll your foot forward, like that. Yes. It’s really in the hips, too. Something like shifting your weight over your feet efficiently.” He looked apologetically at her. “It was easier to learn than explain.”  
  
“Is this how you walk on patrols?”  
  
“Pretty much. Better than stomping down with these boots.” He nodded and turned back to the road...and went still. The underlying tension in his body jumped to the surface even as his face shifted to a calm she didn’t feel at all. His eyes flicked to a spot in the distance, and the skin around them tightened. “Son of a bitch.”  
  
“John?”  
  
“Not as deserted as we thought. Shit. Too much to ask for.” He leaned forward slightly, just enough to bring the image of a cat spying a mouse to Sarah’s mind. “Damn.”  
  
“Are they zombies?”  
  
John shook his head slowly. “I’m...not sure." He squinted a bit. "Can’t really see anything much from here - “  
  
A shot rang out over the stillness of Marylebone and something pinged off the pick up next to John’s shoulder. The ex-soldier reacted instantly, almost like a coil springing into action. He grabbed a fistful of Sarah’s shirt at the shoulder and shoved her to the ground behind the minivan to her right. He followed her a second later. “ _Da spi zo_! Fuck!”  
  
“John!” The squeak from her throat surprised her. “What the hell was - “  
  
“Shut up!”  
  
Her jaw snapped shut, and she watched his face, now roiling with anger.  
  
When no other shots were heard, he spoke fast. “Okay, I think they only saw me. Stay here, for the love of money, stay the hell here.” He holstered the Browning, dropped the heavy rucksack, and swung the SA80 around and readied it. “Stay behind the wheel-wells, they offer the best protection. Engine block would be better, but that is my position. Do not get up for any reason at all. If I get killed, you can go ahead and shoot at them, but one of those bullets are for you. Do you understand?”  
  
The meaning of what he said hit her in the gut. She knew what he implied. But suicide? “John!” She couldn’t keep the horror out of her voice. His head snapped up and his eyes met hers. They were alight with emotion, hard-edged with adrenaline.  
  
“Do. You. Understand?”  
  
She sucked in a deep breath and jerked her chin once in acknowledgement.  
  
“Good. I don’t have time to explain. Just stay here.”  
  
  
  


John moved, still crouched, to the spot he wanted, the one that could afford the best shot at the men he’d seen moving in their direction just moments after registering the shot. The engine of the minivan, while small, would do exactly what he told Sarah it would, and he trusted it would. He was wearing the body armor, so no problem there. Uh... but his head...“Should have sprung for a helmet.” 

He brought the rifle to his shoulder and swung it up and onto the bonnet as well as he could, given the slope of the metal. First target: easy. The bastard stood right out in the open, looking around where John and Sarah had been. John let out a breath and stroked the trigger just as the scrawny man turned to look right at him. He dropped like a ragdoll, and his mates began shouting and shooting wildly. Sparks flew up from the metal around John and bits of concrete sprayed where bullets hit. _'Jesus, don't these people know any weapon discipline?'_ Sarah let out a quiet little squeal as John dropped behind the bulk of the vehicle. He looked at her, noting her terrified face and shaking shoulders.  
  
“Yeah, this is a bit different than shooting zombies, love.”  
  
Her head bobbed up and down, and she offered him a small smile. “Uh, yeah. These people are shooting back.”  
  
“Yep.” He shot back up and took out two more of the group, dropping them both with quick shots to the chest. His finger slid forward and flicked the shot selector to three round burst, and he pulled the trigger again, directing the fire towards the alley where the assailants emerged from. They ducked back into their hiding places, firing all the while. A round came very close to clipping his right ear, and he pulled back behind the front panel. “Fuck all.” He winced. You just know when a bullet has your name on it. That one definitely did. His heart rate picked up, and the battle calm washed over him again as the adrenaline pumped through his system. Now, _this_ was a battle. He felt a grin slip onto his face. _Welcome back, John Watson._  
  
  
  


 

Three streets down from his last ill-fated GPS check (not only was the system not working right, now his mobile couldn’t even find a signal. Great, just fuckin’ great.), he heard gunfire.

Multiple guns.  
  
He grumbled under his breath and tightened his grip on the Hi-Power. “Must be my friends from before, getting some more people.”

He weighed his options - looping around the fighting, in London, without a map, after being gone for a couple years, surrounded by God only knows what the hell these fucking things were; or continuing on the path he plotted before he’d hit the city proper and possibly running into the gang again. The process paused when he heard the very familiar crack of an assault rifle. A SA80, issued to the British military, and not easy to get a hold of. He didn’t remember the bastards having one.  
  
“Who the hell got a hold of one of those?”  
  
Hell, those boneheads could be taking on the actual British Army. They had to be here by now, even if it was the Territorials. Even if it was just to quell rioting or get people out of the city, or restore some sort of sanity in this hellzone. He listened again.  
  
Only one rifle report.  
  
Not the Army, then. A lone - lost? - soldier, separated from his unit?  
  
Or someone who killed a soldier and stole the weapon for him - or her - self.  
  
Shit. He sighed. "No. I'm not stopping now. No way." His left hand traveled to the back of his neck and rubbed. "Shit. _Shit._ " He started walking forward again.  
  
“Time to check this out.”  
  


  
  
“Sarah.”  
  
She looked up from where she crouched behind the rear tires. “Yeah?”  
  
“There’s still at least ten more of these arseholes. It looks like they only have handguns. There could be a submachine gun, but I doubt it.” He kept up the bursts, until the bolt clacked open on an empty chamber. He pressed the eject, pulled out a new clip, slammed it against the door of the van, shoved it in, chambered the round, and continued firing, all in a span of a couple seconds. He couldn’t spare even a moment more, not when he was the only one shooting. Too much of a chance that they would try to move and get around them, and then they would be in trouble. He spared a quick glance in Sarah’s direction...good, he still had her attention. She was terrified, but she had stayed lucid. She’d be okay. “Okay. I’m going to keep their heads down. Look to your right, see that alley?”  
  
She turned her head in that direction, and nodded. “Yes.” Her voice shook a bit.  
  
John smiled at her. “On the count of three, I need you to run over there.”  
  
Her head snapped back in shock. “Are you insane?” she hissed. “I’m staying right here with you!”  
  
‘ _Jesus..._ ’ He growled. “Sarah! You need to listen to me. Do you trust me?”  
  
“John, it’s not a trus - “  
  
“Do. You. Trust me?”  
  
“Yes, John!” She snapped out his name, and he nodded tightly.  
  
“Sarah.” He pulled the trigger again, and one more man dropped, a gaping hole appearing in his chest. “Love, look at me.”  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her wide blue eyes turn towards him. He scanned quickly, then did a Very Stupid but Very Important Thing: he looked away from the gang entirely and focused on her. “Sarah. I love you. I love Sherlock, and I love you. But you both need to start trusting me, yeah? I can’t help you, I can’t keep you safe if you don’t. Yes?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Do you trust me.”  
  
Sarah stared at him, and finally nodded.  
  
PING! PING PING!  
  
John turned and popped back up, catching the bastard who was nearly on top of their position wrong-footed and dead to rights. One stroke of the trigger and he was done, thrown onto his back like a ragdoll by the three high-powered rounds the ex-soldier drilled through his chest. John dropped back down onto his haunches and breathed. “Okay. That alley. Those arseholes are horrid shots. You will make it. On three, run like hell, and don’t stop until you are halfway down that thing, and then _hide_.” He dropped the nearly empty magazine and shoved another home, but stayed hidden.  
  
“One.”  
  
The racket from the gang grew louder. _‘They probably think they have won.’_  
  
“Two.”  
  
As Sarah took a deep breath to get ready for the run, he got his feet gathered beneath him. In Afghanistan, Hammond or Hunter would be behind him, and on three they’d both dart out with him taking the low road and one of them taking the high road. He nodded. No sweat. He flicked the selector to automatic and made sure two clip pouches were open.  
  
“Three.”  
  
The moment she turned to dart out from behind the minivan, John swung around the front and stepped out into the open, moving fast, and unleashed hell.  
  


  
  
He jogged quickly into the last alley, letting the sounds of battle guide him to the fight. With all the buildings surrounding him, it was a chore, but at least he was here... He froze when his ears picked up a shift in the fight: the SA80 suddenly opened up on full auto. Holy hell. He quickly amended his previous assumption, based on what he was hearing. _'Whoever this bastard is, he’s a fucking_ maestro _with that beast.'_   So, a soldier. He ran the last hundred or so yards through the refuse and not a few corpses, hoping to get to the lone man before he was overrun, and nearly ran headlong into a woman. _She_ slammed into him, their combined momentum knocking his balance off and tumbling them to the grimy floor of the alley. He grabbed her by the shoulders before she could rabbit and took a good look at her.  
  
Blonde. Blue eyes, clear eyes. Not dead, not...a thing. Pretty. Pretty terrified. _Oops._  
  
Her hands scrabbled at his chest and she filled her lungs to scream. He didn’t want to lose his hearing so early in the game, so he placed his finger on her lips, effectively silencing her. He took another moment to look at her.  
  
She had body armor on, made to fit a small man. A rucksack, also small. A handgun, in a hip holster. P226...Elite. ' _But there’s no way she was a soldier.'_   He peered at her.  
  
“Hey. It’s okay. I’m one of the good guys. You’re safe now.”  
  
The tension in her body didn’t ease, but she calmed a bit. He helped her to her feet and got up himself. “There we go. Okay. Good girl. Now, what’s goin - “  
  
She turned away from him, looked up through the mouth of the alley, and screamed, “JOHN!”  
  
 _‘Wait, how’d she know...’_ “Oh shit.” He saw the man she was actually screaming to get tackled from behind by - oh, brilliant, the same dick who got the drop on him. Fan-fucking-tastic. He quickly reached out and grabbed her shoulder again as she tried to run back out into that bedlam. “No, no, no. You stay here. I’ll help him, but you need to help me by staying here. Can you do that for me?”  
  
She stared at him and nodded. “Yes.”  
  
“Stay here.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
He bolted out of the alley, gun in hand and ready to fire. This other John and the leader of these dickholes were scrapping it out on the ground, and Mr. John was putting up one hell of a fight. Unfortunately...he was fighting back. The action was moving too fast for him to really follow.

“Fuck, fuck. Can’t get a good shot, shit.” He wanted to call out, tell the guy to pull away, but he couldn’t; it would distract him and possibly get him killed. Besides, the leader...oh, what the hell was his name...Seamus or something like that...Seamus had one arm wrapped around his neck - oop, not anymore, as Mr. Soldier pulled out of that hold and drove a hard elbow into the soft belly behind him. Another elbow to the face and the man was free, only to be pulled around and punched hard. He watched, waited for his chance to assist. Now the fighters were on their feet, but too bloody close for a shot. Shit. SHIT. He could see a glimpse of the chromed revolver Seamus used with him, and his heart jumped in his chest. He weaved and dodged with them, ' _God, get out of my way!'_ Finally, an opening presented itself, and he wasted no time lining up the shot. But the moment was gone just before he finished pulling the trigger.  
  
Three shots rang out.  
  
The blonde John cursed viciously in pain.  
  
Seamus howled.  
  
Both men dropped to the ground.  
  
 _'Jesus Christ, who the hell did I shoot?'_


	17. Play the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein John decides to do something new, Sarah has to keep the two separate in her head, and Porter isn't exactly happy with the situation, but he will take what he can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Um... yes. Once again... if you find anything hinky, let me know. 
> 
> *winces*
> 
> :)

“God _DAMN IT!_ ”  
  
John couldn’t stop to take stock of the pain at the moment. He had more important things to worry about - mainly the man he’d just shot twice, and whoever the fuck just showed up out of the blue to shoot the guy too. He threw the fancy nickel plated revolver well away from both his victim (or would _he_ be the victim? Who the fuck cared?) on the ground and the newcomer, and ripped the butterfly knife that the bastard pulled out of God only knows where in retaliation out of his hands and threw that away as well. Belatedly, he noticed it was bloody. Great. Shots pinged and sparked around them, and John started to move to get to cover, but the bastard grabbed his leg and pulled him down. John’s head smacked the pavement, and stars swam in his vision for the precious moments it took to regain his bearings and kick back. _‘Jesus, this guy was tough!’_ Another bullet zinged past his head, making him duck in reflex and nearly get brained by a flailing elbow. He didn’t even bother turning his head as he barked at the newcomer. “Kill those fuckers, damn it!”  
  
“Already on it.”  
  
John jerked a bit at the deep voice, suddenly reminded of Sherlock. The hand moved up to his knee, the fingers twisting into his denim and skin painfully, and then he had no time to worry about Sherlock, Sarah, the new guy...He twisted around and shoved his boot into his assailant’s face, hoping the pain would overload the man’s brain enough to... _yes_! He let go, and John kicked again for good measure, but only caught air as the guy came crashing down on top of him. “Fuck!” Now he had to rely on his ground-fighting again, which was hard when his stomach was on fire. He fought hard and finally flipped his attacker around so the man’s back was against his chest. Blood dribbled and splattered from assorted abrasions and cuts as he wrapped his arms around the bigger man’s neck to choke him out. That wasn’t going to happen, even when he trapped the man’s legs with his own, because a head flew back and John barely avoided getting a broken nose. Two elbow jabs to already sore ribs, and John had enough of this game. He shifted his grip on the guy’s neck, locked down, and pulled up and to the left. The motion was accompanied by a sickening crunch-pop as the vertebrae in the neck separated and snapped. The man’s whole body jerked once, then went still and slack. _‘Just like turning off a light.’_ He breathed deep to clear his brain, then let go of the new corpse and rose to a crouch, scanning the area as he took up his Browning once more. He got a good look at the newcomer; a tall, dark haired bloke with a Browning as well, stationed just behind a tiny Fiat. The man put a bullet in another head and ducked down to avoid return fire.  
  
 _‘Okay, he listened to me once. Let’s try this.’_  
  
“Hey.”  
  
The guy glanced at him. “Yeah?”  
  
“How many are left?”  
  
The man turned away, towards the enemy position. “A couple. They’ve taken shelter behind those two compacts.” He gestured towards where they were at, and John squinted in that direction. Sure enough, he could barely make out a dark head. John moved to where the new guy crouched, and knelt down himself to avoid making a target of himself. Dark Hair nodded at him. “Don’t want to waste ammo flushing them out.”  
  
“That’s fine. I’ve got the 80. Well, rather, I _had_ it...” John twisted his head around, trying to remember where he’d thrown it out of the attacker’s reach only to have Sarah hand it to him. “Jesus, Sarah, I told you to stay PUT!”  
  
“I thought I said the same thing.” The soldier looked hard at her. John scowled at him.  
  
Sarah only shrugged. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave you out here alone.” She pulled out her pistol. “Mind if I get in some target practice?”  
  
John smirked. “As much as I’d rather you not have to...well, you...” He shook his head, remembering that this was the same woman who’d stuck a syringe of potassium chlorate into a man’s neck in self defense. “To hell with it. Go for it.”  
  
He checked the rifle and raised it to his shoulder, sighting in on the compacts as he swung around the Fiat. It was still on full automatic, so he just let loose, burning through the rest of the clip. Windows imploded and metal shells pockmarked under the assault. Sarah shot at the first head that popped out of cover. The round actually only skimmed the top of the guy’s skull, but the damage was done. He fell, bonelessly, to the road. The new guy got the last man a little left of the center of his forehead as John raked the rifle fire across the top of the second compact.  
  
The echoes of the battle rolled over the now empty street as they stopped firing. John’s eyes moved over the carnage, looking for stragglers or fakers.  
  
There were none.  
  
“Oh, my God.” Sarah breathed. “What the hell was all of that?”  
  
“No bloody clue.” John turned and patted her shoulder. “Are you okay?”  
  
“Uh, yeah. Yeah. I will be.” She leaned into him and just breathed some more to calm herself down. John wrapped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed a bit.  
  
“Okay. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.” He turned his gaze onto the newcomer. “Now, then. Who are you?”  
  
“My name? John Porter.”  
  
“Oh, hell, another John.” Sarah groaned, tilted her head on John’s armor-covered chest to look down, and squeaked in alarm. “Jesus, John! Are you alright? You’re covered in blood!”  
  
John pulled off his load-bearing vest, glanced at the blood-spackled canvas, then looked down at his stomach. Oh, yeah. Right. “Oh, uh. Yeah. Um...probably need to get this sorted. Not sure if that’s all my blood, but it could be.” He plucked at his torn shirt, and it stuck to his skin. “Mostly congealed blood, though. Could be done bleeding.”  
  
“Pull it up, love.”  
  
John smirked and dropped the armor to the road. “Yes, mum.” He just went ahead and pulled the whole deal over his head and off as she dug in her pack for the emergency first aid kit. “If it helps any, it burns, but it really isn’t all that painful.” He spared a glance to his healing arm, nodding to himself as he saw it wasn't any worse than before the fight. Once completely revealed, the knife wound didn’t look all that horrible. Porter started to come forward, but John held up his hand, his hard-won instincts burning bright in his mind.  
  
“Nope. You just stay right there. Please,” he added belatedly.  
  
Porter held up his hands to about head level, gun and all. “Relax. I’m not the bad guy here.”  
  
“And neither am I. But we’re all a bit keyed up, and I don’t want any trouble.” John tipped his head towards Porter’s hand. “You might want to either drop that gun or holster it, mate.”  
  
Surprisingly, the man did as he was told, choosing to stick the gun into the waistband of his jeans, and quickly. John felt a bit better at that. _‘He’s trying not to be threatening. He’s probably telling the truth. I’d rather not find out the hard way, though, not with this injury.’_ He grunted as Sarah started cleaning the slash, and closed his eyes against the sting of antiseptic.  
  
“Well, looks like I didn’t shoot you.” Porter had craned his neck until he could see a bit past Sarah’s shoulder. John looked back up at him.  
  
“Did you think that, then?”  
  
“It was a possibility, yes. You two were moving pretty fast.”  
  
“Yeah.” John nodded. “I guess I should apologize for that.”  
  
“No, it was good. Just a shoddy shooting situation.”  
  
“Well, good on you for not shooting me, then.”  
  
Porter shrugged. His eyebrow and mouth quirked up, and those eyes glittered with quiet mirth.  
  
John smirked. “Yeah, you’re okay. Shit, that hurts!” He patted at Sarah’s hands. “What are you doing to me, woman?”  
  
“Cleaning the wound. Stop being a baby!”  
  
“Waa, waa.”  
  
Sarah snorted out a laugh. “Stop it. God, doctors are the worst patients.”  
  
“You can say that again.”  
  
Porter cut into their banter. “So, where’d you get the rifle?”  
  
John looked at the SA80, now on the ground at his feet. “A friend gave it to me as a bit of an end-of-the-world present.” He winced as Sarah pulled on the skin to line up the butterfly stitches. “I should actually be thanking you for the assist.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not a problem.” Porter looked a bit uncomfortable. John could sympathize. He squinted at Porter, and decided to do a bit of deducing himself.  
  
 _‘Hair - military cut, bit longer than regulation length - he’s been out of the service for a while, but continues to cut it to keep up appearances...or because he likes it. Sharp, light blue eyes - wary, watches everything around him. Triangulates. Shoulders back, arms slightly splayed - used to wearing a holster and body armor. Legs apart to keep center of gravity low. Body loose but ready to move._  
  
 _Conclusion: obviously, this guy is a nun._ ’ John huffed a short laugh. _‘Hmm. May as well, should be interesting to see his reaction.’_ He felt the man’s eyes studying him, and smirked.  
  
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
  
Porter barely blinked. “Iraq. You?”  
  
 _‘Man, he is one cool customer.’_ John shrugged. “Afghanistan.”  
  
Porter nodded, as if confirming a suspicion. “Perfect. Where in Afghanistan?”  
  
“A few places.” John accepted the fresh shirt Sarah flapped at him and pulled it over his head. “Mainly Kandahar, Helmand. Took a few field trips to other areas, but Helmand was my home.”  
  
“Is the shoulder what sent you back?”  
  
John grunted a bit as he pulled the fabric over the larger abrasion on his upper right arm. “Uh, yeah.”  
  
Porter gestured towards his own shoulder. “Basra. 2003.”  
  
A smile pulled at John’s lips. “Maywand. 2010.”  
  
“Are you two done comparing battle scars?”  
  
They both looked down at Sarah. She patted John’s leg as she stood, the rifle in her hands. “Is there a possibility that any of those creatures heard this mess?”  
  
“Aw, shit.” John slapped his forehead, and winced slightly when his ears began to ring. _'Ugh, could have a concussion. Not good.'_ “Ouch. Not doing that again. Ah, yeah. We should get moving. We are losing sunlight and time.”  
  
“Where are you headed?”  
  
“We are going to Tesco Extra.” Sarah pulled the heavy rucksack over and heaved it towards John. He caught it easily. “We need a few more supplies for our group. It’s on Southam Road.” She smiled shyly, something that John sort of... _looked_ at her for. “Would you like to come?”  
  
Porter went through his mental map of London, woefully out of date but still...oh. _'Could be heading in the right direction. To be honest...I really don’t know where Alex could be. I should stick with people. It is apparently too dangerous to be a lone wolf anymore.'_ “Yeah. Sure.”  
  
Once that was sorted, everything was gathered up, and they moved on down the road past the minor battleground. John took a moment to scavenge what weapons he could from the bodies. Porter nodded in approval. _‘He’s already distanced himself from what he’d done. Nice.'_ Sarah seemed to be a bit discomfited. John himself tried to look apologetic, but the courtesy was lost on his companions, since Porter wasn’t all that bothered and Sarah had already turned away. Not like he was all that great at it, anyway. After an hour of walking and silence (only the last bit of it comfortable), Porter snorted. John and Sarah looked at him.  
  
“I was in the Special Air Service. Made it to Sergeant.”  
  
“Oh, here we go again.” Sarah made a show of her groan, and both men laughed.  
  
“Who’d you serve with, John?”  
  
“RAMC. Captain. Didn’t notice the tattoo?”  
  
Porter snorted again. “And I herd cats.”  
  
John laughed. “I’m not kidding! Really. Medical Corps.” He shrugged. “Well, mostly.”  
  
“Ah, see, there we go.” Porter nodded sagely. “A little white lie. What regiment?”  
  
“Uh...I served...16 Medical.”  
  
“And there it is. Which means...”  
  
The dark haired Commando trailed off, a thoughtful look in his eyes. John winced a bit as his knee started to protest the walk. Strangely...not his right one. He peered at Porter, the tall bastard. _‘Shit, this guy’s even taller than Sherlock!’_  “Which means?”  
  
Porter’s face lit up, but the smile seemed a bit distracted. “Well, that explains it.”  
  
“Explains what?” Sarah cocked her head and looked between the two men.  
  
He turned the grin on John. “Captain John _Watson_. RAMC.” He winked. “I think I may have heard of you.”  
  
  
  
John Porter could not believe his luck, though this time it was the good kind of luck. What could beat running into a mate of McIntyre’s? Also, the good captain was lying, sort of. Sure, he was in the RAMC, but that’s not where he started out, no way. Not the way he was fighting Seamus Fuckhead. Besides, 16 Medical is attached to 16 Air Assault, which would make him...what? Porter shook his head. _‘Damn it, I wish I could remember what Scott told me about his friends...’_ He looked at the shorter man again. _‘A medic that can use a rifle and use it well. He’s very skilled, and he’s retained that skill.’_ His face scrunched up into a scowl. _‘He’s been out for a while, it’s obvious. He’s a civilian now. So it wasn’t just a token ‘Here’s a gun, this is a trigger, don’t use it unless you absolutely have to’; it was ‘Here’s a gun, have the handbook, memorize it, sleep with it, this thing is the only thing that will keep you alive. Use it’. He’s done patrols. He’s done security. He’s commanded.’_ Porter stopped walking. The other two kept moving for a couple yards...and John halted as well. He turned to look behind, scanning.  
  
“Something wrong, Porter?”  
  
He grinned.  
  
“You were Para. You started out in the Parachute Regiment. I definitely have heard of you. Though mostly at a different point in your career, apparently. You weren’t a medic then, were you?”  
  
John tilted his head down to hide the wide grin that stretched across his face. Sarah, the pretty woman who just... _did_ something to his brain, also smiled. “Oh yeah?”  
  
“What made you switch regiments?”  
  
When John looked back up, his face had regained its pliable pleasantness. “I.E.D. injury kept getting aggravated on patrols, couldn’t keep up with everyone. Took a promotion and a position on base as a medical officer. Not a medic.”  
  
Oh. Well, that makes more sense, seeing as he was a captain. “Do you remember a man by the name of McIntyre?”  
  
The blonde man’s head jerked. “Scott? Scotty boy? You know him?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Great! That’s...that’s good. Fantastic.”  
  
Porter felt his grin mold itself into something softer as Watson’s shoulders eased from the tense state they’d been in ever since the attack. Well, since he’d shown up, at least. ' _Oh, goody. He trusts me now. Yipee._ ' He returned his gaze to the area around them. He couldn’t see much by way of movement, which was a good thing right now. Just buildings and cars and trucks. Some were overturned, some were gutted by fire. Others were just abandoned, doors left wide open. Personal effects were scattered here and there, testament to the speed that people were trying to escape. As they walked in a much more companionable silence, his eyes roved around.  
  
“Oh, God.”  
  
He turned to Sarah. “What’s up?” Then he saw it. Well, her.  
  
A small child, perhaps all of four years old. Her bloody, eviscerated corpse lay on the pavement to the left, bloated and teeming with flies. Porter closed his eyes against the image of Alex that superimposed itself over the sight of that poor child and winced. _Jesus_.  
  
“Sarah. Let’s move on.” Watson’s voice held no emotion, the clipped quasi-order given quickly as the man grasped the woman’s shoulder and led her past the body. Porter tilted his head and lingered a moment more to allow his mind to return to itself. Then he too carried on.  
  
  
  
As they moved down Marylebone, the bodies of humans and creatures alike became more commonplace, as did the smell of rotting bodies and foodstuff that permeated the smell of asphalt, dirt, and rubber from the heated roadtop. Sarah felt bile rising in her throat, and the random thought of how John - her John - could stand the smell in Afghanistan ran across her frazzled mind. Also - she had shot someone. A living, breathing human. She actually pulled the trigger and killed someone. Somehow, that one deed was much worse than what she’d done in the clinic. Much, much worse. She felt even more sick. _‘Oh, God. God.’_ And that poor child. She tried not looking at the other bodies scattered on the tarmac, but the doctor in her made her look. God, it was horrible. Horrible! Tears gathered in her eyes, but she didn’t dare let any of them fall. She didn’t want to look weak to the man named Porter, nor did she want John to see her like this. A gentle hand on her shoulder shook her out of her fugue, and she turned around. Her John was smiling softly at her. Porter was up ahead, on top of a luxury sedan, gun in hand.  
  
“Is everything alright, love?”  
  
She turned her head back to John. “Uh, yeah. Yes.” She arranged a smile on her face, knowing it fell short of convincing. The slight crinkle of the skin between John’s brows confirmed it.  
  
“No. Don’t lie.”  
  
“I’ll be okay, really, John. I just...I’m having a hard time with all of this...”  
  
The hand tightened. “I know, love. I know it’s hard. Just stay with me. I can’t have you wandering off into that mind of yours and missing something important. Take a break and eat something.” He squeezed again and moved away.  
  
Sarah felt strangely bereft of the touch.  
  
She watched Porter hop down from the roof and mutter something to John, who nodded and jogged ahead. She suddenly felt the urge to just run after him and hold him until this whole damned nightmare was over, or they died. She sure as hell didn’t feel like eating anything; she’d just get sick all over the place. Better to just let her stomach stew.  
  
“Everything okay, Sarah?”  
  
She damn near jumped out of her skin. She didn’t notice that Porter had come to her side. She shook her head violently. Jesus, John was right. She had to snap out of this and start paying attention. What if Porter had been a murderer, or even worse...one of the zombies? She would be dead. She looked right at him, and forced a more believeable smile onto her face than she’d given John.  
  
Apparently, this one didn’t pass muster, either, judging by the expression on this man’s face. _‘Jesus Christ, what is wrong with the men around her? Empathetic? Who would have thought?’_  
  
“I’ll be fine. It’s fine, Porter.”  
  
He seemed to take her words at face value, at least for the moment. “Okay. Watson’s gone ahead to check out a snarl of traffic I saw. We’re pretty close, aren’t we? To that Tesco you guys are going for?”  
  
She pulled out the pages that Sherlock had printed off of his laptop (for some reason, that daft man had ‘Google Map’d every grocer and eatery in London and the outlying areas and saved them on his hard drive) and showed them to him. “I think so. I’m pretty shoddy at reading maps. I much prefer GPS.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, I know what you mean.” Porter smirked. “Especially when you are driving.” He looked at the map. “Internet still works?”  
  
“Ah, no, our friend just likes to...collect...maps on his computer.”  
  
“Oh. Okay.” He nodded, and pinpointed where they were on the map with his finger. “This is most likely where we are. This,” he slid his finger to the red star on the map, “is where we want to be. Yep. Pretty close. Couple of hours, now.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Let’s hook up with Watson, and see what he’s found.”  
  
Sarah nodded. “Perfect.” She noticed that the sick feeling in her stomach had disappeared, and she smiled. But her mind still wanted to wander, though it had a much...nicer...destination - Porter’s very nice butt, encased in a pair of denims that just...wow. Wow. She blinked. _‘Okay, this man is really not good for a woman’s heart.’_ And those eyes...She shook her head and nearly collided with the object of her attention when he stopped to scope out a large passenger van. “Oh, jeeze, sorry! So sorry!” Her face heated up with embarrassment, but all he did was smirk again and wink at her.  
  
“Oh, it’s okay. Mind wandering?”  
  
She nodded, not trusting her voice to be on a normal register.  
  
“Mine, too.” His expression morphed into a distant, sad one for a moment. He visible shook that off and the amused look returned. “So, what’s your last name?”  
  
“Ah...Sawyer. Sarah Sawyer.”  
  
“Nice to meet you.” He stuck out his hand ( _ooh, large hands, large hands!_ ), and the smirk turned into a warm smile. “Wish it was better circumstances.”  
  
“Yes.” She grasped that hand ( _calloused like John’s, only a bit...more_ ) and shook.  
  
“So, are you another stray that our good Captain has picked up?”  
  
“Ah, no, no! He’s...my boyfriend. We’ve known each other for a while, a couple of years. I used to be his boss, actually.” She took a moment to really look into those blue eyes and found... _oh, hell_. The same thing that thrilled her to the core of her being when she looked into John’s eyes.  
  
Danger.

Oh, God. She was in _trouble_.

 _‘Well, if John decides to pick Sherlock over me, at least I’ve got this bloke.’_ She felt a shy smile spread over her face. _‘And what a bloke he is!’_ He’s actually taller than Sherlock by a couple of inches. Dark hair, blue eyes, and a crook to those lips of his that could give a model a run for his money. _‘Man, this guy could have been an actor, that’s how stunning he looks. And he’s a Commando! Well, that’s what he implied. Isn’t that what the SAS is?_ ’ She paused for a second as they weaved around a flatbed lorry and Porter held up his hand. She watched as he squinted, searching the area around them for something moving. Finding nothing, he nodded at her and continued walking. She sighed. _‘Damn it, another soldier. I wonder if he’s going to come back with us?’_ She remembered what John had said, at the beginning of this. He was breaking his own rules, practically. But maybe he felt he needed someone else to help out? God, how were they going to keep this guy? He looks like he’s got his own agenda, really. Is he going to expect John to help him, now that he’s helped them?  
  
“Hey.”  
  
She looked up at him. Up. That was nice. “Yes?”  
  
“You mentioned that you and Watson are doctors.”  
  
No, she hadn’t. “Uh...no, I didn’t.”  
  
“Yeah, when you were patching him up. ‘Doctors make the worst patients.’”  
  
Oh. “Ah. Yeah. Okay. Yes, we are. GPs.”  
  
Porter looked confused. “General practitioners?”  
  
“Yep!”  
  
“Usually Medical Officers have some sort of specialization, because of their college career.”  
  
She focused her eyes ahead, trying to catch a glimpse of her lover. “He was a trauma surgeon.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
She huffed at the unfair hand John had been dealt. “He was shot.”  
  
The dark haired man beside her nodded sagely. “That would do it.” He bumped her shoulder with his upper arm. “Hey. He’s a good bloke. That guy he and I were talking about, Scott McIntyre? He and I go way back. He and Watson go even further. I’ve heard stories about ‘Bulldog’ Watson and ‘Screamer’ Scott.”  
  
Sarah stopped walking altogether and stared at Porter. “Oh. Do tell.” She smirked.  
  
The man started laughing, a deep, resonating sound that curled around her. “Oh, yes. There’s a saying that still gets passed around the pubs that soldiers frequent, started around 2002, I think. ‘If you see daggers or eagles, lock your doors and hope they aren’t thirsty.’” He grinned. “‘And if they are together, call the fire brigade.’”  
  
Sarah chortled. “Really?”  
  
“Yeah. Also: ‘A Commando, a Bootneck, and a Para walked into a pub. They were the only ones left standing.’”  
  
“Oh, God.”  
  
“Apparently, when they sent the boys home on leave, they would raise Cain all over London. Wasn’t often that the three regiments would get together. Rivalries, you see?”  
  
Sarah didn’t really, but she nodded all the same.  
  
“Well, there was a group of them. McIntyre and Tyler were the Marines, ah...Jcyzeck and Carr were Commandos, and...Watson and Harper-”  
  
“The medic? A girl? She went drinking with them?”  
  
Porter cocked his head at her. “How do you-?”  
  
“Oh, I saw a video that John had in his trunk.”  
  
“Oh. Okay...”  
  
“Yeah, Harpy and I would go and terrorize the town with the boys.” John came around the back end of a black Suburban, making Sarah jump. Porter raised his gun for a split second, then lowered it again. John barely even blinked. “She was a right scrapper when you got her going. We all thought she was a hoot! Scott and I would do shots with her, mostly The Three Wisemen, just to get roaring drunk and pick fights with punks and dock workers. It was fun as all hell.” He held up his hands when Sarah leveled an incredulous stare at him. “What can I say? Those were the days. And you will not believe what I have found.”  
  
“What?” Porter looked at him, his smile muted to a simple quirk of his lips.  
  
John grinned. “A Land Rover. Full tank of petrol. Camping supplies in the back. Looks like the family took the food, mostly. But there are extra cans of petrol in the back. We have hit the jackpot.”  
  
Sarah’s face lit up like Christmas. “Oh my God, really!”  
  
Porter’s smile returned full force. “Brilliant. Can we get it out?”  
  
“Hell yeah!” John vibrated with his excitement, and it was hard not to pick up on that. Sarah could feel the joy building in her chest. Things were starting to look up. “It’s right at the front of this jam. Come on!”  
  
They kicked it into high gear and followed John.  
  
  
  
Sure enough, the Land Rover sat right in the front, virtually untouched by the other cars (save for a minor dent in the left rear bumper). Porter whistled through his teeth at the sight. “Well, I’ve got to hand it to you, Watson. She is a beauty!”  
  
John couldn’t wipe the grin from his face if he tried. “A miracle I found it, even.”  
  
And a miracle it was. It just so happened that this thing had all the fixings. He’d snatched up the operator’s manual and found it to be a 2004 Discovery, made to seat seven. Well, they’d make do with it. Shouldn’t really bother with trying to find another one, though that would be nice, real nice. He grunted as he looked through the booklet. Seems a lot of the outer parts were aftermarket things. Someone had made this his little weekend toy, with solid brush guards, extra lights, heavy duty tires, and a big luggage rack. God, this thing was a beauty! He smiled to himself. What luck! Brilliant. He felt really good, a feeling he’d not had in quite awhile, it seemed.  
  
Porter pulled his head back from where he’d been looking in the cargo hold. He looked a bit...cautious. “Hey. Do we have keys for this thing?”  
  
John’s grin grew in wattage as he opened his hand and jingled the set of keys that he’d found on the ground just a couple meters away...next to the body of who could have been the owner. ‘Let’s not think about that, shall we?’ “Right here, Sergeant.”  
  
“Perfect.” His toothy grin made him look much younger.  
  
Seating arrangements were swiftly made. Porter would take the middle seats, and the rear windscreen would be left open to keep the line of sight clear for the SA80. Sarah would take the passenger seat and help John navigate. John himself would take the driver’s seat. Oh. This...could be a problem.  
  
As the commando leaned on the open tailgate and calculated km/L for the fuel, John walked over to Sarah. He leaned in so Porter wouldn’t hear their exchange. “Sarah?” Her name came out as a hiss.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
John winced. “Would this be a really bad time to say that...well...” He hesitated.  
  
“What, John?”  
  
“I...don’t. I don’t drive.”  
  
“You...don’t...drive?” She sort of...stared at him, confused. John shook his head emphatically.  
  
“No. I don’t. Actually...I can’t.”  
  
She stared at him. “No. Pull the other one.”  
  
John chuckled. and shook his head again. “I’m not kidding.”  
  
“Oh, God. Do you want me to tell him?”  
  
“No! No, no. Bad. Bad idea. No.” He waved his hand at her. “No, it’ll be fine. Just...This is going to be interesting. Hop in.”  
  
He really couldn’t help but be excited. Sherlock had driven to Dartmoor, and he’s got the attention span of a gnat sometimes. How hard could it be?  
  
He popped the bonnet as Porter slammed the tailgate and jogged to John’s side. “So, we should have enough fuel to get to at least Edinburg, if you decide to go that way. I think it’ll be good.” He paused. “Could we...make a quick stop?”  
  
John turned around. Sarah winced in the passenger seat. _‘This is what I was afraid of.’_  
  
“What for, Porter?”  
  
The man took a deep breath. “My...I just need to see something. I was looking for someone...”  
  
“No.” John lowered the bonnet and latched it. He turned back to Porter. “No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Exactly that.” John leveled a hard stare straight at Porter. “You won’t find them, John. I’m sorry. You won’t find whoever you are looking for, and you will most likely die trying. It’s already too late, and unless they have some sort of survival training or know someone who does, they are also dead...or one of them.”  
  
Porter stiffened, and blinked hard.  
  
 _‘Jesus, just listen to me. Please, listen to me...’_  
  
“Is it that far gone already?”  
  
John nodded. “London is dead. Literally and figuratively.”  
  
“But...” Porter’s voice wavered, just a tiny bit, barely even worth mentioning, but it struck a chord with John almost like a slap in the face. _‘Shit. Oh, shit.’_ He barely heard the whispered, “She’s my little girl...”, and it tore his heart to shreds. _‘God. Damn. It. Damn it, damn it, damn it.’_  
  
A split-second flash to a moment in Afghanistan after an enemy mortar hit a small school. Holding a man back from rushing headlong into the inferno. Staring into his wild brown eyes, tears streaming down as John shouted him down, trying to make him understand that he couldn’t do anything. Listening to the man’s grief-wrecked voice howling in Pashto, wishing that he couldn’t understand exactly what he was screaming. _‘Please, my baby! My little girl! Save her, please save her!’ ‘We can’t! We can’t go in there!’ ‘Please!’_ Another explosion, and the man melting in his arms, sobbing his horror and sorrow into John’s canvas armor.  
  
John had to look away from Porter for a second before he threw up. _‘Fuck.’_ He couldn’t just...let this guy die out there, on his own, chasing a ghost. “You’re better off coming with us.”  
  
Porter looked at John. The tears in the man’s eyes threatened to fall; then his hand was there, wiping at his right eye, then his left. What was left after that was steely courage. “Probably. You’re probably right.”  
  
John nodded. “Do you know where she was last?” _‘Maybe we could try...’_  
  
“No. She’s in a University, somewhere around here.”  
  
 _‘Oh, God, that’s a nightmare. All those kids, trapped in those dormitories...no. There’s no chance in hell that she’s still alive. Oh, God, Porter, I’m sorry.’_ “I’m sorry. I’m afraid that’s not good enough. I’ve got people to keep alive, and I need to get back to them. If I don’t return, I could lose them. You understand, right?”  
  
The man nodded. “Yeah. I do.”  
  
“Good.” John reached out, tentatively, and put his hand on Porter’s shoulder. “She’d want you to survive, mate, not throw your life away looking for her.”  
  
Porter winced slightly, barely even a pull at his swarthy features. “Not too sure about that.” The mutter did not go unheard. The wince turned into a rueful smile that did not reach his sad eyes. “Why? Why should I trust you?”  
  
Watson tried on a grin. “Because I’m not a spook, and I’ve got a bigger gun?”  
  
Porter chuckled, and this time a nicer smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Well, yeah. You have me there.” He looked at John. “You don’t expect me to call you ‘sir’, though, right?”  
  
John threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, hell no. No. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime!”  
  
Porter joined in on the laughter, and John felt a bit better for it.  
  
 _‘Yeah. This one will survive, too.’_  
  
  
  
  
After another bit to eat and drink (Porter muttered, “You guys really don’t have to keep feeding me, you know. I’ve survived worse than this.” Sarah smacked him on the shoulder. “You are traveling with two doctors. Don’t even think that we won’t stuff you full.” “Ok, alright, fine, I’ll eat. You wouldn’t happen to have a chocolate flavored one, would you?”), they got settled into the Land Rover.  
  
Once behind the wheel, though, John cursed under his breath. _‘Damn. I’m completely lost.’_ His eyes darted back and forth over the control panel quickly, trying not to alert Porter. _‘Uh...shit. Ok. Shit, shit shit._ ’ He turned the key in the ignition, and the SUV turned over smoothly, the engine purring beneath the bonnet. _‘Okay, alright... gear shift on the steering column...Ok...P, R, N, I, 2...D...OD? What’s OD? Shit. Uh...okay, Don’t worry about that, not important right now. P is park, that’s where we are at right now. R...reverse.’_ He looked over his shoulder at the other cars. _‘Don’t need that, nope. N is neutral. First gear, second gear...D must be...Drive. Drive, that’s what I want. Yes!’_ He patted the steering wheel and smiled.  
  
“Uh, John?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Both Porter and Watson looked up and at Sarah. She blew out a slightly frustrated breath.  
  
“Jesus, I’m going to have to get a code for you two, aren’t I?” She smiled as both men grinned. “Ok, no, either one of you will do.” She looked back out the front windscreen. “We might want to get a move on, here.” She pointed at the people walking...no, staggering...towards them.  
  
Watson blinked. “Oh. That is just fucking fantastic.”  
  
Porter grunted out his own expletive. “Fuck. That sounds like a brilliant plan, Sarah.”  
  
She passed back the SA80. “I assume you know how to use this?”  
  
The dark haired John snorted as he dropped the current magazine, checked it, shoved it back in, then pulled back the bolt to check the breech and locked the weapon. “Of course.”  
  
Sarah nodded and readied her Sig. “Ok, we are good to go.”  
  
Both men stared at her.  
  
“What?”  
  
Porter peered a bit harder. “You...haven’t served in the military, have you?”  
  
“No. But I know two - now three - people who have.”  
  
“Okay.” John took a moment to struggle with the shifter until his brain kicked into gear. _‘Oh, duh.’_ He depressed the brake pedal, shifted into Drive, and hit the gas.  
 **  
**


	18. The Past, Relived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In where there is bag packing, Greg has some life affirmation, and Sherlock discovers something _important_...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, just shoot me if there are any glaring errors....

“How much more can you fit in that bag, Tim?”  
  
Anderson poked and moved a couple things around, and threw a dog toy over his shoulder. “Uh, five more energy bars, a shirt, deodorant, and a bottle of water?”  
  
Sally nodded. “That’ll do. Hey, Martha?”  
  
The lady turned around from her busy work in the kitchen. “What do you need, sweetie?”  
  
Sally walked to the foyer, dodging Gladstone, who had the discarded pull rope in his small mouth. “Did you already pack?”  
  
From in the sitting room, they heard Anderson grunt. “No, Gladstone. You are not putting that...no, down boy!” Growl. “That’s not...” Yip-growl. “Just...oh, fine. Fine. You win! Put the rope in the bag!” Sally smiled.  
  
“I’m going to wait to pack until John gets back, dear.” Martha swiped a flannel at an old coffee stain on the countertop. “I’d like to have his help.”  
  
“Okay, then.” Sally shrugged and went back to helping Tim wrestle the bulldog pup out of his bag. Even through the walls of the old brownstone, they could hear the intermittent cracks of the rifle on the roof.  
  
“I really thought those things only came out at night.” Tim shoved the water bottle Sally handed him into the overstuffed knapsack between his legs.  
  
“They are sensitive to sunlight - well, at least their eyes.” Molly dragged her own book bag over the carpet and propped it up against John’s chair. “That doesn’t mean they won’t travel by day. There aren’t that many, though, so good job there.”  
  
Tim stretched, pulling his sore arm and shoulder behind his head. “That actually bothers me. Why can’t they just be...oh, I don’t know, vampires or something?”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, Tim. Vampires don’t exist!” Sally chortled, but she became quiet as three sets of eyes settled on her. “Oh come on! Yes, I know, ‘zombies don’t exist yet here we are’ or some shit, but you can’t honestly expect me to believe that vampires actually exist. At least zombies have some sort of scientific reasoning to back them up!”  
  
Gladstone whined and flopped onto his side against her thigh.  
  
Molly shook her head with a small bemused expression. “There’s actually a disease - “  
  
“Oh, shut up!” Sally snarked.  
  
“ - that causes cravings for blood in humans, as well as a deficiency in iron, making them anemic.” Molly’s smile grew as Sally dropper her head into her open palms and groaned.  
  
“You have got to be kidding me.”  
  
“And there’s a disorder that makes hair grow unchecked all over the body, no matter if you are male or female, adult or child.”  
  
Sally snorted out a laugh. “Okay, seriously, shut. Up.”  
  
“And crave raw meat.” Tim grinned.  
  
Sally threw an energy bar at him. “Now.”  
  
Scattered gunfire punctuated their mirth.  
  
  
  
“I’m actually beginning to wonder if they realize their mates are dropping left and right around them.” Greg dropped his first empty magazine of the day and fished another out of the kit bag next to him. Sherlock laid on his back and snapped a bubble with his gum.  
  
“They probably do, but the brain functions necessary to actually care are either destroyed or so far degraded as to be completely useless. Not that it matters, of course.” The younger man tossed his arms over his head and heaved out a sigh. “I’m bored, Greg.”  
  
“Only you could be bored in the middle of the Apocalypse, Sherlock.”  
  
He turned his head towards the former D.I. “Actually, this is only the beginning of the Apocalypse, as you term it. We will most likely be dealing with one form or another of zombies and other disasters caused by this one well into our future generations, if there are any generations to come after us. Pestilence, famine, short supply of power, fuel, and so on and so forth. It will take decades to recover from this.”  
  
“Well, leave it to you to be the spot of sunshine on an otherwise cloudy day.” Greg grimaced. “Thanks for the reminder.”  
  
“As if shooting an assault rifle at zombies isn’t enough of one?”  
  
Greg glowered at him.  
  
“Oh, come off it. I’m only stating the truth.”  
  
Greg sighed. “And don’t I know it.”  
  
“Hey.” Sherlock rolled over to his stomach and pushed off of the pebbles. “I’m bored. Let me try this gun.”  
  
“You’ve got a perfectly good sniper gun over there, Sherlock! Leave off! This one’s mine!” Greg smirked.  
  
“Ugh. I don’t want to shoot that one anymore. Let me. Please?”  
  
“Oh, fine.” Greg shifted out from behind the SA80 and smiled wider. “Be careful for the recoil.”  
  
“Ah. I will keep that in mind.” Sherlock picked it up and inspected it, making sure not to point it anywhere near Greg. “Not nearly as elegant as the AW.”  
  
“Nope. She’s still a tough girl, though, yeah?”  
  
Sherlock scrunched his nose at Greg. “Now you are sounding like John.”  
  
“I can’t help it, not when he makes them sound so good!”  
  
“Oh my God. We are going to have a double ceremony. John and … the sniper rifle, and you and this thing.”  
  
Greg sniggered. “Gonna have to find a Father that would do it.”  
  
“We’ll go to Vegas. They have those drive-up cathedrals. I’m sure we could smuggle the weapons in.”  
  
They shared a laugh as Sherlock knelt down into a shooting position he’d seen John use before, a lifetime ago. They’d gone to the Yard’s shooting range at Sherlock’s behest (rather, he’d begged and cajoled and pleaded until an exasperated doctor finally conceded). Sherlock then studied different shooting stances and how they affected the quality of the shot, using John as the guinea pig. There, he’d learned John was an expert marksman, something he’d suspected ever since the case of the poisoning and the cab driver. Now, he’d put what he’d gleaned from that day to good use, hopefully.  
  
The weapon John had used at the range was an old American M1 Garand, a ‘grand old rifle that never really went out of style’, according to John, but the rifle in his hands now would work just fine. Sherlock tried to remember the exact position of his legs in relation to the rest of his body, and also what his doctor (that phrase bumped into some sort of pop culture reference in his mind for the millionth time. He’ll have to ask John about it later) had taught Tim and Greg about the rifle itself. The lessons came to him quickly enough, and his large hands felt almost at home on the receiver and pistol grip. He lifted it to his shoulder, flicked the safety catch off, and sighted in on Unfortunate Zombie Number One. He let out half a lungful of air, and squeezed the trigger.  
  
The shot went wild as the recoil slammed the butt of the gun back into his shoulder. The round sparked off the side of the building adjacent to their position, and Sherlock winced. The zombies below jerked and wavered, but didn’t seem to register where the sound actually came from. That was good. Sherlock hadn’t ascertained yet whether or not these things could climb stairs or fire escapes. He hoped not.  
  
“Damn it. Not the best first showing.”  
  
Greg chuckled from beside him. “That was about the best I could do on my first try, too.”  
  
Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement, then settled in for the next shot.  
  
This time, he hit his target. The zombie’s head splattered against the overturned car next to it, and the again lifeless body slipped to the pavement.  
  
The next shot dropped another zombie, another direct hit to the skull.  
  
Sherlock found himself grinning like a fool.  
  
 _‘Not so bored anymore, are you?’_  
  
  
  
Tim and Sally took the next watch. The flow of zombies had died down once more, so Sherlock had no qualms about leaving them alone out there. He really wasn’t too worried about them, but as a precaution he opened both of the bay windows in the front of the sitting room so he could better hear if something went wrong out on the street. God forbid he should lose two marginally integral parts of this rag-tag collection of survivors. He shook his head and moved to the steamer trunk.  
  
John’s steamer trunk.  
  
 _‘Sarah went through this to find that combat knife. I’m sure John wouldn’t mind me taking a look. I’m curious after all, and a scientist should have as much information about their subject before coming to a conclusion. Considering everything I originally missed about him, and all the new information I have...I must know more.’_  
  
He flicked the closures open and lifted the lid fully, revealing a veritable treasure trove of John’s past. He could barely contain the tiny gasp of glee that rose into his throat.  
  
“Oh. Brilliant!” The words were carried out on a breath as he breathed in the faint scents of what he believed John’s old life smelled like: sand, old blood, the barest musk of sweat, and adrenaline (did adrenaline have a scent? He’d have to experiment one day). He catalogued bits as he went, taking in the minute scratches and gouges on the hard inside cover of the lid (boredom, using the lid as a makeshift target for metal tip darts he’d gotten with a dartboard and his...knife, apparently - not the large KaBar, but the one the British military had issued him) and a fine layer of sand on the hinges (he grabbed a Petri dish out of his bag and scraped some of that into it for later), and he grinned at a note scribbled with a Sharpie marker around the gouges:  
  
“NOTE TO SELF: NEVER EVER TRUST A MAN WHEN HE SAYS HE’S GOT A CAMEL TIED UP SECURELY, ESPECIALLY WHEN THE FUCKING THING IS IN LABOUR.”  
  
“I must ask John about that when he gets back.”  
  
Now that he was finished with the small things, he moved on to the first thing in the main compartment. He lifted the camouflage shirt out and unfolded it. The first thing he noticed was the blood that stiffened the canvas material, staining it a darker reddish-brown. He ran his fingertips over the stains and felt the minute grains of sand and dirt embedded in the mess. His brain swiftly kicked into gear. _‘Massive blood loss. Obviously from the shoulder wound. Entire left side of the shirt, encroaching on the right side. Probably ran into his trousers as well. Both front and back are covered. He was upright when it happened and made a valiant effort to stay that way throughout the episode. Judging from the spread of the bloodstain, he would have done so for at least five minutes, up to ten if he was lucky.’_ He turned the shirt around in his hands once more. _‘More staining on the back than the front. He landed on his back after the injury took its toll, unable to get back up. But he would have had his vest on, how did sand get on this? Could have been blowing sand...ah. Rotor wash from a helicopter.’_ He brought the shoulder of the shirt close to his face and inspected the ragged hole torn in the fabric with his eyes and index finger. Then he turned it back around, and looked at the front again. _‘An entry hole, but no exit hole. He was indeed wearing body armor when he was shot. The armor did its job, to a point. It slowed down the projectile, but since it was most likely a high powered round or even an armor piercing round, it was not contained in the Kevlar layers.’_ In his mind’s eye, he stood John in the middle of a white room with extensive lighting and put the shirt on him. He placed himself next to him and moved the image until John was side on, looking at the wall to Sherlock’s right. A red line appeared; the trajectory line of the bullet that nearly stole his doctor from him. Sherlock physically reached out in his mind, grabbed the line, and moved it until it lined up with both the hole in the back of the shirt and the scar on John’s chest. _‘The round impacted high in the shoulder, clipping the scalpula and most likely shattering on impact, taking bone fragments and bits of cloth with it as it moved through soft tissue and exiting lower. The angle of the trajectory places the shooter above and behind, most likely...two, three storeys up. A building. John himself was kneeling on the ground, treating a patient. Why else would he have his back turned on the enemy?’_ He stopped, took the shirt off once more, but left the red line as he turned the image of John to face him. He focused on the mottled pink and white asymmetrical  starburst pattern (such a pretty scar). The red line bisected the scar nearly center mass. Sherlock overlaid a video of the round impacting the outer curve of the shoulder blade, breaking apart, and coming out the front in a gory spray of matter and blood. He could almost feel the splatter on his own chest, since there was no vest there to contain the mess. _‘Major soft tissue damage and damage to the brachial plexus. Possible damage to the subclavian artery and or vein from shrapnel. Surgeries corrected the broken scalpula and blood vessels, as well as the nerve cluster. Still presenting with pain and weakness, five to fifteen percent and varies with activity and tiredness levels, that could very well be irreversible.’_ He bit his lower lip as he stroked the virtual image of John’s shoulder. His fingers came away bloody. _‘Statistically, survival rate would have been twenty to around sixty percent, depending on damage and proximity of other medical staff. In a combat theatre such as where he was, survival rates drop, especially with no immediate aid. But he’d kept working. He didn’t lie down until he fell down. Heart pumping blood, heart rate increased because of adrenaline and pain...fear...no. No, he didn’t stop working because there was no one else. He was the only one in the area, he couldn’t stop...’_ Sherlock paused. _‘Survival expectation drops significantly. Right down to...zero.’ He blinked. ‘John didn’t think he’d survive. No. He_ knew _he wouldn’t.’_  
  
A thought strayed into the room with him and John’s image, unbidden. In the sitting room in 221B, he stood with John and Greg had been sitting in his chair. 

* * *

_If you were dying, if you’d been murdered. In your very last few seconds, what would you say?”_

 

_“Please God let me live.”_

  
_Sherlock had callously (well, it’s not like he’d known at all...not like now) told John to use his imagination._   
  


_“I don’t have to.”_

* * *

  
Sherlock now took a shaky breath and looked at John’s image. The image looked back with dead eyes. A mannequin, nothing more. Not his doctor. Not...John. No.  “Yes, John. You really...didn’t have to, did you?” He pried his fingers away from his friend and turned off the light.  
  
  
  
  
Martha Hudson stood in the foyer, silent, behind her young tennant, her young man. She couldn’t help but to think of both Sherlock and John, that dear doctor, as her boys. Denied children of her own, she made do with these two. And what a roller coaster it was! Bullet holes in the walls, experiments all over the flat, dead pigs in bathtubs, and that violin screeching at all hours of the night. Oh, and the strops they would have. Sherlock, with his poor social manners and warped sense of self worth (undoubtedly caused by that right bastard of a father of his; oh, who would kill themselves with such young impressionable children, really!); and John, Dr. Watson, poor lad, stripped of the two things he enjoyed the most in his life and left to fend for himself by the country he nearly gave his life for. Oh, if only she could call them up and give them a good earful of her mind. Two broken men came to her flat that day, and they’ve been mending ever since. Sure, there have been some hiccups, but they’ve blossomed in each other’s friendship so much! It was much better than any of those silly romance stories on the soaps Mrs. Turner was so fond of. Martha spared a thought for her friend, out of town with her family, but no more than that. She was much too old to be sad; death, for her and her ilk, was an inevitability. Not so for these young ones around her. Well, Gregory wasn’t that young, but still a couple decades below her, so there was that. It was so hard, seeing her dear ones go through this. She sighed as Sherlock visibly jerked out of wherever he goes when he just zoned out like that. He blinked quickly, and wiped his hands on his jacket, then placed that blasted shirt aside to dig through more of John’s things. She looked on and waited as Sherlock opened the lid of that little oak box and gingerly touched the medals within, muttering quietly to himself, undoubtedly making notations in that brilliant mind of his. Her dear detective held each one up, close to his face, and laid them back into the box with more care than she’d ever seen him show even the most delicate of experiments.  
  
She smiled.  
  
  
  
Greg lay, sated and feeling very, very happy. He felt bloody grand, wrapped in sweaty sheets and Molly. He shifted his leg, which earned him a happy hum from the woman currently snuggled up against his side. Turning his head, he met a set of brown doe eyes and a smug smile that would kill him one day, and he matched the smile and reached around with one limp arm to gather a handful of her beautiful brown hair and pull her into a sloppy after-sex snog. After that, he breathed in her scent and sighed.  
  
“Why me, Molly?” When she pinned him with a quizzical glance, he chuckled. “Now, don’t give me that look. You know what I mean. I remember last Christmas; you are utterly besotted with Sherlock Holmes. Don’t think I would be heartbroken if I’m a second stringer.”  
  
Molly gasped and collapsed as far as she could into the crook of his arm and giggled until she couldn’t breathe. Greg couldn’t help but laugh too.  
  
“I’m serious, though, Molls. Why me?”  
  
She looked up at him, her laughter giving way to a sleepy smile. “Because you are a bit more...deserving.” Her eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Well, not really more deserving, but...you have always been nice to me, and Sherlock was only nice when he wanted something. Well, sort of. He was nice in other ways, but he was mean, too. He didn’t always realize it, I think, because he didn’t...well, he wasn’t always that good with...people. I’m not good with people, either, I guess. That’s why I chose to work with dead people, I think. Um...” She trailed off into silence for a bit, and Greg was half afraid she was either too embarrassed to talk, or had fallen asleep on him. But then she took a breath and continued. “Sherlock doesn’t like me like that.” Her face heated up, and even in the half light of the bedroom, Greg could tell she was blushing. “Um...he’s pretty, and ridiculously brilliant, and completely unattainable.”  
  
Greg nodded and pulled her into his chest. “So you pick an ageing copper with a bit of a belly?”  
  
“Oh, that will disappear, I think.” She giggled a bit.  
  
“Yeah.” He sighed. “Jesus. I wonder if all of my conversations will come right back to ‘by the way, we are in an apocalypse’?”  
  
Molly winced against his pectoral. “I’m sorry...”  
  
“Oh, don’t be. It’s not...horrible. I just...wish I could escape this for a while.”  
  
Molly squeezed him hard. “Have you packed already?”  
  
“As much as I can. John’s getting me another bag so I can carry more.”  
  
“Good.” She walked her quick little fingers down his chest, headed for the light sheet still covering his hips. “Let’s go another round, then, yeah? Help you...escape?”  
  
“God.” Greg’s cock jumped to attention at her purred words. “You are perfect. I’ll keep you!”  
  
  
  
Tim watched the sun begin its slow trek down the sky and wiped his brow, catching the lone bead of sweat rolling down from his hairline. He’d goaded Sally into taking the ground because he thought it wouldn’t be as hot, with the shade that the buildings around them provided. God, maybe he was an idiot. The pavement just seemed to make it hotter. Ugh. And the worst part about it was that it was...well, pardon the expression...dead. Not one zombie in sight. He hefted the SA-80 in his arms and sighed. _‘At least I could have left this thing on the roof.’_ Jesus.  
  
Sally kicked the rotting head of a Hispanic man...actually, she wasn’t sure if it belonged to a Hispanic man. She couldn’t really tell by the skin color anymore, since so much of it was missing - or rotted off. She fought down the sick feeling in her gut and turned away. “Hey, Tim?”  
  
Tim gave up and lowered the rifle for a bit. He couldn’t see anything coming down the street, anyway. “Yeah?”  
  
Sally tossed the rock she’d been rolling around in her fingers at the pile of burnt corpses. It bounced off a skull and pinged off the side of a small sedan. “How do you feel about...” She shrugged, and scrunched up her nose. “Us?”  
  
“Us?” He stared at Sally.  
  
“Yeah. I mean, you’re married, and-”  
  
“Andrea’s dead.”  
  
Her head jerked back a bit at his matter of fact tone. “Oh. Okay.” She shuffled her feet a bit. “Sorry.”  
  
“It’s...fine.” He huffed out a hard breath. “I...just hope it was quick.” His eyes rolled up, and he looked back up at the sky. “John’s right. He’s right. We have to believe we are the only ones left. So, us?” He looked back down, and locked Sally into a stare that he really hoped conveyed some sort of...acceptance. _‘Yeah. She’s the one I’d want with me if I can’t have Andrea by my side.’_  “Yes. I like you... and you tolerate my presence.”  
  
Sally snorted.  
  
“We can make this work, Sally. Believe me. I’ll make it work.”  
  
Sally finally smiled, a real smile, something he missed. “Okay.”  
  
A groan from behind the lorry jerked them both around in a second.  
  
“What was that?” Sally drew her gun.  
  
“I’m...not...sure- oh, shit. Shit.”  
  
He’d forgotten to check the bleeding alleyway. Shit.  
  
From behind the truck, a group of shambling corpses appeared, and the groans and moans grew in volume and number. He shoved the rifle to his shoulder and flicked a finger out to slip the safety off. A second later, he opened fire. Sally followed right behind. The creatures dropped under the barrage of bullets from the couple, one-two-three at a time. They were careful to make head shots only, which Anderson found rather hard to do on the ground. Despite their efforts, more and more zombies emerged from the alley, only to fall to the ground, dead once more. Tim blinked sweat from his eyes, more from fear than from the heat now. His heart slammed repeatedly against his ribs, and he counted kills in his head.  
  
“Thank God these bastards don’t move fast!” Sally changed her magazine as quick as her shaking hands would allow and kept firing.  
  
“Yeah.” Tim couldn’t keep the waiver out of his voice. Oh, God. Oh, God, this is horrible. Horrible! Where’s Greg and Sherlock! He shook his head. _'No. No, we can do this. We can...oh, God, how many magazines do I have? Oh shit.'_ He did a quick mental tally...well...not enough to handle a horde. Maybe enough if this group ends...now....shit.  
  
“Uh, Tim?” Now Sally’s voice was betraying her fear. Great.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I’ve only got a couple clips with me.”  
  
 _Shit._  
  
“And I’m already on one of them.”  
  
 _Double shit._  
  
“Almost through it, too.”  
  
 _And triple that._  
  
“Okay, okay.” He tried to think while shooting. It wasn’t working. ' _Jesus, how does John do this?'_ “Okay. Um....”  
  
The zombies kept coming.  
  
He took a moment to look towards the front of 221B...and grinned. “Hallelujah.”  
  
Sherlock hung out of the open window and stared down at the coming mass of zombies. “Fuck!” His head disappeared back into the sitting room.  
  
Sally looked over at Tim. “What, ‘Hallelujah’?”  
  
Tim smirked at her. “Our salvation.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“That crazy bastard can’t resist a good fight.”  
  
“Who?” She emptied the rest of the clip into three more zombies, dropping them where they stood. Unfortunately, the creatures were getting closer and closer. Tim nodded resolutely.  
  
“Back up.”  
  
They did, shooting as they went. They both jumped when a clattering, banging noise erupted behind them. Tim didn’t dare look; he really, really didn’t want to know if a gang of these bastards was behind them, too... The noise quieted, and a string of profanities that would have made John proud rose above the moaning and growling of the creatures ahead of them. As Tim and Sally came abreast of the entryway of the building, Sherlock hopped over the overturned barricade. He held a bag of clips in one hand and his Browning in the other.  
  
“Would you like some company?”  
  
Tim’s smirk grew. “Help is always appreciated, Freak.”  
  
Sherlock’s lips pulled into a death’s head grin as he pulled out a handful of rifle magazines. “I grabbed these from the main bag. I also ran upstairs to alert Greg and Molly. Apparently, I disturbed them.” He winked. “Seems Mrs. Hudson and I are the only ones not having sex at every opportunity.”  
  
Sally groaned. “Oh, my God.”  
  
Tim couldn’t help but to start laughing, even as he finished his first clip and hit the eject button to drop it into his hand, like John had shown him. The former detective raised his gun and started firing to cover him.  
  
Together, the three faced the enemy. **  
  
  
**


	19. The Dangers of Shopping At Tesco Extra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in the middle of an apocalypse, you can't get out of a Tesco Extra without a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ZOMBIES. GLORIOUS ZOMBIE KILLING EXTRAVAGANZA!!!! I FINALLY DELIVER ON THE ZOMBIE KILLING!!!! *rubs hands in glee* 
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked, shoot me if you must, but please keep the blood off the carpet, it stains.

John pulled the Land Rover to a jerky halt in what he hoped was a parking stall in front of the Tesco Extra, shifted into Park, and turned off the engine. “Ha. Perfect. That wasn’t so bad.” He smiled at the steering wheel.  
  
“Watson.”  
  
He turned around to look at Porter. “Yes?”  
  
“You could have just said you don’t know how to drive, mate.” He looked a bit...pale. John laughed.  
  
“Hey, it wasn’t that bad!”  
  
“That was one of the most harrowing experiences I’ve ever had. Do you even know how off ramps work?”  
  
In the passenger seat, Sarah tried to hide her laughter behind her clasped hand and nodded in agreement with Porter. John grumbled good-naturedly at her.   
  
“Well, it’s not like there’s any traffic cops to give me a citation, is there?” He smirked and slapped the wheel. “Besides that, the parking job isn’t half bad, if I do say so myself.”  
  
Porter shook his head and chuckled. “I don’t know. At least you didn’t put us through the front doors.”  
  
“Oi!”  
  
The Rover seemed to echo with their mirth, and John hung his head. “Okay, alright. Let’s get inside this place before all hell breaks loose.” He unclipped the safety belt and popped the door open, Browning in hand. Taking a moment to scan around, he slid out of his seat and crouched slightly, watchful for anyone and anything that decided to pop up from the surrounding parking lot. On the other side of the SUV, Porter took up a similar stance. Sarah followed John out the driver’s side door.   
  
Other than the mob of creatures they’d easily outrun (and in some cases, ran over), they hadn’t seen much more on the much quicker trip to the store. A noise caught Sarah’s attention, and she swung her gun around to sight in on the disturbance by a wheelie bin at the corner of the brick building. A scrawny stray dog scuttled away from the humans, a dismembered arm in its mouth. John distantly noted the arm was too small to have belonged to an adult.   
  
“How are we going to do this?” Porter walked around the front of the Rover, over to the front of the building, and pulled on the sliding door of the supermarket entrance, then jerked on it a bit harder. “Damned thing won’t open,” he muttered.  
  
“We’ll split up. Sarah, you will grab a trolley and head to the foods. Stick with easy to carry things in case we have to bug out and abandon the truck. Porter.”  
  
Porter looked around to John.  
  
“You should find yourself some extra clothes and toiletries, things you think you’ll ne - well, yeah.” John flapped his hand at the commando. “You know how this works. Weapons, things like that. We only have enough for our group, and barely enough at that. Just...make sure you can carry everything you grab. Get a rucksack, while you’re at it, yeah?”  
  
Porter nodded. John returned the gesture, and looked through the glass doors to the back of the store. “I’ll be in the back, getting the bags, camping supplies, that sort of thing. Meet up back here when you are done. If something happens, shout. Understand?”  
  
This time both Sarah and Porter nodded. He swung his bag off his back and rooted through it.  
  
“Great. Keep quiet otherwise, and keep an eye out for marauders and zombies alike, okay? We don’t need dead people this early on, yeah?” He dropped the empty satchels he’d pulled from his rucksack onto the concrete and walked up to where Porter stood next to the once-automatic doors. “Now, I know that in emergencies these things can be pried open. Let’s have a go at it, shall we?”  
  
He and Porter got their fingers wrapped around the rubber seals and partially dug into the crack between the two slabs of metal and glass. As Sarah looked on, Porter counted down, and on ‘one’, they pulled. She watched them strain, curse, and finally wrench the doors open with twin growls. _'Oh!'_  
  
“Hey, John?”  
  
“Yeah?” He grunted under the strain of holding his door in place. “Je- _sus_ , isn’t there a point these sons of bitches stay open?”  
  
“Should we prop them open with a...oh, I don’t know, a pipe or something?”  
  
He looked up at her as inspiration hit.

Porter nodded. “Good plan. Find us a prop.”  
  
She cast around the immediate area, looking for something. The closest she could find was a shopping trolley, standing out in the open of the parking lot. She jogged over and grabbed it, dragging it over to them. “Will this work?”  
  
“Yeah, it’ll -” _grunt_ “-do. Go inside and pull it behind you.”  
  
She obeyed, and with a flourish, the men let go of the doors. The doors tried to slip shut, but were impeded by the shopping cart. Somewhere in the otherwise quiet store an alarm bleeped. Sarah jerked her head down in satisfaction. “Perfect.” She glanced through the opening at the men. Porter offered her a small smile as John shook the cart a bit, checking the sturdiness. Apparently, he was happy with what he found, because he hopped into the basket itself and climbed over the obstacle. Porter brought up the rear, taking another look behind him for anyone on their way across the lot.   
  
Once inside, the commando whistled low through his teeth. “A bit different than what I remember.”  
  
“You could say that again. When I went for my first tour, they had actual cashiers.” John shook his head sadly. “Now they’ve got these chip and PIN machines that are evil little buggers. They hate me. That might be the one thing I won’t miss. That, and queues.”  
  
Porter’s white teeth showed through his smile this time. “I hate queues.”  
  
“No kidding." John smiled, too. "Let’s split off now.”  
  
  
  
  


John Porter prodded yet another pair of chinos and sighed. _‘I should take my time and look for something good, but why bother? This isn’t going to get any better. I certainly won’t be dressing to impress anyone.’_  

His lips scrunched to one side, then the other, and his tongue slipped out to wet them. He pulled one off the rack and grimaced. _‘Not sturdy enough. Shit. Why does Watson have to be so bloody short? I’d never fit into his clothes, and I’m not going to find anything...’_ He trailed off as he spotted a different rack, and walked over to it. He immediately dropped the khaki-coloured chinos in his hand and grabbed the denims off the new rack. _‘Oh, yes. Nice, very nice. These will do just fine, thank you.’_   
  
He grabbed another pair just in case, and wandered over to the shirts and picked up a checkered button up and three graphic tees. He kept moving as efficiently as he could. Soon, he found himself next to an empty trolley and directly in front of the shoes, wiggling his toes in his desert camou boots ( _who exactly do I need to thank for the insight to actually wear these on this trip instead of the Italian loafers I’d been debating on what seems to be a lifetime ago?_ ) and eyeing the steel toed construction boots.  
  
  
  
  
John Watson stood in front of the rucksack display, chin in hand, muttering to himself about weight ratios, rain-proofing, and carrying capacity. His eyes darted back and forth between the solid black one and the greyish blue one. Both were large, both were solid, both had rigid supports. He looked at the box. Both come with sleeping bags. _‘A major plus, that.’_ He squinted at the specifications on both tags. _‘They’re the same bloody thing! Why’s one more expensive than the other?’_ He shook his head. “Why the hell do I care?” He snorted and pulled two of each into the trolley...on second thought, three of each... and walked around to the display of propane tanks, the small kind you’d use for camping stoves.   
  
He smirked.  
  
He had a completely different idea for them.  
  
Surely Sherlock had explosives lying around.

He swept his arm over the display, dumping at least twenty into the basket. He pushed the cart down that aisle, whistling as he reached out and pulled things into the cart. A couple heavy duty torches and batteries...wait. He backtracked and grabbed five solar powered ones as well. Dehydrated foodstuffs - he and Porter were well acquainted with these pleasant little things. A couple Swiss Army knives for good measure. He turned the corner and didn’t even bother suppressing his little-boy grin at the sight of the glass display case against the back wall. “Oh, god yes.”  
  


  
  
Sarah spent most of her time in the nuts and snacks aisle, trying to remember what sort of nuts Sherlock liked. He’d told her, in passing, just before they’d left, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what he’d said. She pulled out her mobile and stared at the blank screen. “I wonder how John’s and Sherlock’s cells still work. Even Greg’s and Molly’s do.” Her brows scrunched together. “Maybe his brother assumed they’d be the only ones surviving.” She winced. “Whatever.” She grabbed five bags of the mixed variety and three bags of pistachios and moved on. The next aisle had drinks and she found powdered everything; powdered tea ( _ugh)_ , powdered flavoured water mix ( _ick_ ), powdered energy drink mix (she grabbed that)...  
  
She paused at the fruit punch and listened carefully, brows furrowed in concentration. She could have sworn on her grandfather’s grave she’d heard something. But other than the faint echoes of the guys on the other ends of the superstore, there was silen- no.  
  
 _scraaaaaaape-_  
  
There it was again.  
  
Her breathing quieted as she fought the panicked instinct to scream. Yeah, John had told her to, but what if this was a false-  
  
 _scrraaaaaaaape-shuffle-_  
  
She drew her Sig as quickly and quietly as she could with shaking hands. The slide of the metal on canvas sounded like sandpaper to her ears.  
  
 _shuffle-scrape._...moooooan.  
  
She swallowed the cry that bubbled up into her throat and raised the handgun. Her heart tripped in her chest as the child staggered around the corner by the honey.   
  
“Oh...my...” The words barely slipped through her lips on a whisper. The small creature raised her ragged head and stared at Sarah with dead, opaque white eyes. Well. One eye. The other hung by the optical viscera.  
  
“...God...” Sarah wasn’t sure if she could shoot a child, even one so obviously dead. The little girl’s hair hung down in scraggly strings where it hadn’t already rotted away or had been pulled out. The blackened gore of the zombie virus and old blood ringed her small mouth, and those disgusting lips opened to reveal haphazard teeth dripping with diseased saliva and more of the black mess. The open mouth unleashed a howl that tore at Sarah’s senses, setting off her panic reactions.   
  
She squeezed the trigger and screamed for John.  
  
  
  
  
John jerked as a jolt of adrenalin shot through his system, spurred by the animalistic howl and the higher pitch of Sarah’s screech. “Jesus - Sarah!” He turned to run along the back wall - the quickest way to her, judging by where the scream came from - and stopped cold.   
  
Three creatures stood, hunched and swaying and fucking moaning, in his way.   
  
He pulled out his Browning and snapped off three quick shots. The zombies dropped like marionettes with their strings cut, and John stepped over them, wasting no time. On the way over the last body, he plucked up a cricket bat from the basket in the corner.   
  
“Tu kooneh mollah chapeh beshi.”  
  


  
  
The sudden scream of ‘JOHN!’ - _Sarah_! - was the only warning Porter got. His head turned towards her location as he also heard a much more ominous sound: scraping noises coming from- oh shit!  
  
He whirled around to confront the freak behind him. As cold hands wrapped around his arms, tight as vice grips, he gripped the male...thing by the neck, trying to keep the snapping jaws away. Frothy spittle and blackened drool slopped onto his forearms, thankfully sparing his bandaged wrists. His face morphed into a rictus of raw anger, which he channeled into holding the shockingly strong creature at bay with one hand as he reached behind his back with his other to whip his Browning out of his jeans. He pressed the barrel against its head and squeezed the trigger. Diseased brain and blood sprayed out of the gaping hole the bullet left behind, and the thing jerked once and fell limp in his grip. Porter dropped it and swept his right leg out to catch the next creature in a classic _osoto-gari_ , clamping his left hand around the freak’s neck and powering it down to the floor. The zombie’s skull bounced off the tile, and it roared up at his face, the animalistic sound lighting up all of the commando’s nerves like lightning surging through a power station. “Motherfucker!” Fetid air washed over him, bringing acidic bile up into his mouth. He pushed to his feet and drove the heel of his combat boot down onto the creature’s head. It took a couple of tries, but the bone finally crushed under his weight, and the thing stopped moving. A moment later a hand closed on his bad shoulder, and he was pulled down.  
  


  
  
John barely paused when he heard another gun report. Porter, he hoped, could handle himself. He swung around another endcap and found his worst nightmare staring him right in the face: Sarah was surrounded by zombies. He didn’t even slow down; he barreled right into the fray, swinging the bat around to brain the nearest creature to his left. The sickening crunch of the bone giving way beneath the wicked swing was only compounded by the the equally sickening sound of the wood itself snapping under the strain of striking something designed to withstand much harder hits. John didn’t even spare the extra brain power to curse at his horrid fucking luck. He flipped the handle in his palm and drove it, broken end down, into the skull of another zombie. The improvised ice pick sank in all the way to his fist, and he yanked it back out quickly. The new corpse fell away from him. Sarah screamed again, and he heard another shot, much closer ( _good, she’s still fighting, that’s good_ fuck _)_ , and the sound of another cranium popping open from a hit. The deep seated rage that simmered in the depths of his mind and gut since the first attack at Baker Street came to the helm and took the wheel. Instinct overpowered everything else. He gripped the collar of a woman-thing and ripped her backwards over his hip to sprawl behind him.   
  
“Sarah, I’m here, I need my fucking knife!”  
  
It was too close quarters to bother using his handgun, and he needed to conserve bullets. He knew he was strong enough to combat these fucking things without one, but did he really want to? It didn’t matter in a second, because Sarah simply obeyed his barked order and tore the sheathed blade away from her own body armour and threw it at him, no questions asked. He caught it easily with his left hand dropped the bloody wooden stake, drawing the Ka-Bar out of its sheath in time to bury it into the gory eye socket of an elderly man-cum-zombie who had his last eye on John’s arm. The creature screeched in a register normal vocal cords shouldn’t be able to hit and flailed, then staggered back, hissing and spitting. John followed and forced the blade deeper, twisting and finally ripping up and out, taking a good sized chunk of bone and tissue with the blade.   
  
From behind him, a creature roared with hunger, and John suppressed the sudden reptile urge to match it with one of his own. Instead, he reached behind him and gripped the zombie by the front of its gore-stained hoodie with his left hand, planted his feet, and pulled forward. There was a split second where his shoulder said _oh hell no we are not doing this_ \- and then the creature  sailed over his hip and landed on the top of its head, _hard_ , on the tile. John heard the neck snap over the ambient growling and moaning, but he had a feeling that zombie wasn’t out of commission yet, considering it was still twitching and groaning, making vague swimming motions with its arms and legs. Sarah leveled the P226 in her hand at its head and fired. Viscous blood erupted from the wound and the thing stilled. John finally had enough working space to pull out his Browning once again, and he aimed into the remaining crowd of zombies and fired.

  
  
  
“God fucking _damn it!_ ” Porter growled deep in his chest in response to the thing trying to take a chunk out of his face and pushed both hands against the underside of the gaping maw, trying to hold its jaws closed.  “Fuck, fuckin’” - _grunt_ \- “shit!”  
  
He was on his back, surrounded by ten of these bleedin' freaks of nature, and just how much worse could this get? He shifted his hands so that the thumbs pressed up into the soft clammy tissue under its jaw and caged his fingers around its face, tightened his grip and twisted his shoulders, snapping the thing’s neck with ease. He looked at the last one he fought off him, flailing and struggling to regain its feet, and shuddered with revulsion. _'So, snapping the neck really doesn’t work. Shit.'_ He threw the twitching corpse off himself and tried to roll away from his attackers, already planning his escape route and where he was going to link up with John and Sar -   
  
Sudden weight on his back halted his train of thought and his movement, trapping him on his stomach. _‘Oh, no no no. No. So this is how it gets worse. No. Bad, not good not good...’_  
  
A panic-driven surge of adrenalin burst through his brain and body, shifting him into pure overdrive. He bucked hard once, twice, throwing the weight off his back. The moment he had his freedom, he scrambled up and away, hands gripping at the ground and - nothing. Shit. _FUCK_. His gun had been lost in the blind fear reaction, and he no longer had a weapon. His brain clicked on the only option he had left. There was no way he was going back into that throng of hell-creatures.  
  
“Watson!” He bellowed his fellow soldier’s name and ran towards the back of the store, the zombies on his tail.  
  


  
  
The last creature fell under John’s hand, and he grabbed Sarah’s upper arm. “Leave the trolley, let’s move, now, let’s _go_!” He dragged her down half the aisle before she could get her feet beneath her.  
  
“John, wait - “  
  
“We’ll come back for it, right now we need to get up somewhere high. I don’t think these things can climb. I don’t know, I don’t care, we just need to go.” He yanked her around the endcap at the beginning of the aisle and slid to a halt. “Madar gendu!”  
  
A pack of ten zombies blocked the path to the offices  
  
“Shit,” Sarah muttered.  
  
The creatures weaved and growled where they stood. Drool and blood dripped to the floor beneath them, and they watched John and Sarah with those god-awful murky white eyes. The orbs were locked onto them with predatory precision. Sarah’s whole body quivered in fear, but she kept the shaking barrel of her gun trained on the pack. John’s head swiveled around in search of a way around... _there_!  
  
“Come on!”  He pulled her into the home decor aisle, reaching out to the sides to topple displays of computer chairs, picture frames, lamps...whatever he could to have a hope to slow those fuckin’ things down a bit. He heard Porter’s desperate shout from the other side of the store.  
  
“Watson! Where the _fuck_ are you?”  
  
John’s eyes bugged. “Golole!” He responded as they ran down the last aisle and burst out the end of it. “Busy! Go to the back of the store, the BACK!” He yanked Sarah around to his front and spared a moment to glance behind them - shit. The creatures were only a couple aisles back, climbing over the display of ironing boards. “Are these things getting faster?” He stared into his girlfriend’s face and gripped it suddenly with dirty hands. “Sarah. You need to go. Now.” He turned and pointed towards the swinging doors on the back wall. “Through those doors, and up the first set of stairs you come to, Jesus, I know there are stairs because there _has to be_! Go!” He pushed her shoulder, but she didn’t budge. He glared at her. “Now, love!”  
  
“Oh, no. I am not leaving you this time, John.” She pulled open the ammo pouch on her vest and extracted a magazine. “Head shots. I’ve got this.”  
  
“I’ve got to go find John. Porter. Whatever. You are not...please, just go!”  
  
“I’ve got this. Go help him. I’ll be right behind you. I promise.”  
  
“Sarah...” John’s brows furrowed in distress, his heart slamming in his chest. _‘I can’t save them, I can’t save them all, I’m going to lose someone, fuck fuck fuck...’_   
  
She leaned forward, grabbed his face with both hands, and kissed him, rough and dirty. She bit at his lip, drawing just the slightest bit of blood. The slide of her gun dug into his cheekbone as the barrel parted his hair. The feeling of the warm metal against his over-hot skin sparked in his brain. The kiss itself was over too soon, but the tingling sensations it left in his nerves... _Jesus_. It wasn’t a goodbye. No way in hell was it a goodbye kiss.  
  
“I’ll be fine. Go. Go be a hero, and I’ll bring up the rear.” She squeezed his face once more and pushed him away. They were both aware of the time that they’d lost arguing and kissing, but suddenly it didn’t really matter anymore. She turned around at the same time he surged forward towards the doors and fired the last of her clip, hitting five of the creatures. She quickly changed it out for the new one, then she was right behind him, true to her word. She jogged sideways so she could watch their back as they ran.   
  
Now that she was watching, she saw what John had. The zombies were moving faster, and with more coordination than before. Oh, God.  
  
She couldn’t worry about it right now. She really couldn’t, because she had to keep John alive.  
  
She fired into the pack again and cursed their shit luck. “Even when the world ends, you can’t get out of Tesco Extra without a fight,” she muttered. The startled laugh that John barked made up for the dragging around she had to endure.  
  


  
  
Porter was paying too much attention to what was behind him again. He couldn’t really see the creatures, but he knew they were there, damn it, and it was not sitting well with him. So he ran sideways, wishing to whatever fuckin’ god would listen to him anymore that he had some sort of goddamned weapon - _ooof_! He nearly folded himself over a glass display case at speed, and he heard his spine pop in protest. Granted, it ended up feeling great, but that wasn’t the - oh. Oh! He looked down into the case and grinned.   
  
“Oh, yes, baby, this is what I’m talking about!” Suddenly, his day had rainbows and fuckin’ unicorns and dancing ponies and sparkles. Life was good again. He jerked his head around, searching for something to bust the glass with. The fire extinguisher in the corner by the display would do just fine, thank you. He reached over and ripped it off the drywall, holding post and everything. He lifted it over his head and brought it crashing down on the case, putting all of his weight and strength behind the swing. In a shower of glass his prayers were answered. He pulled out the hunting crossbow, holding case, and the extra bolts. There were five fiberglass bolts already attached to the high tech frame. “Brilliant!” He dropped the case to the ground, made sure the weapon was ready to fire and knocked the first bolt as the first freak rounded the corner and howled. Swiftly, he turned at the waist, brought the weapon up to sight down the frame, and pulled the release. A foot and a half of high speed fiberglass with hunting tip attached buried itself into the back of the thing’s throat, effectively cutting off the horrid noise. The creature’s head snapped back at the impact, and it dropped to the floor, twitching and foaming at the mouth.   
  
“Holy shit, it worked!” He stared at the new corpse in awe for a moment, then jerked his head around as commotion erupted behind him.

  
  
  
John reached the aisle next to the camping supplies just in time. He spotted the commando staring at a dead zombie and opened his mouth to alert him when something very heavy landed on his back. He was off-balance from the run and the extra weight toppled him to the floor, landing hard on his right hip and side. A knee dug hard into the small of his back, forcing him full onto his stomach, then the pressure moved jerkily to his left shoulder and pressed down hard. Agony shot through his back and chest like lightning. Two hands gripped his hair, pushed his head down to crack it against the floor, then yanked back, cranking his head to the side to expose his neck to the gnashing teeth of a very hungry zombie. Saliva and God only knows what else dripped onto his nape and slid down the side of his neck. Blood ran down the side of his face from the cut that opened on his temple. He bucked his hips hard to try to throw the bastard freak off his back, but to no avail - he was an excellent ground fighter, but on his stomach, with trapped arms and something easily twice his height and weight on his back, it was almost useless. His eyes jerked back and forth wildly, trying to find something, anything to fight back, something lying on the floor - FUCK! His vision blurred and almost greyed out when his neck reached the near-breaking point... _’this fucker is trying to pull my fuckin’ head OFF_ ’...John wriggled as much as he dared until he could free his left hand, the one with the knife, but his shoulder wouldn’t work - _oh God oh God no_ \- the knife slipped from numb fingers and at this angle he couldn’t get air let alone any fuckin’ _leverage_ to get his gun hand free...  
  
 _THWACK!_  
  
The hands jerked in his hair, pulling painfully for a second before blessedly falling away, and the surging body above him turned to deadweight, smacking his head against the floor again as the chest hit. Stars swam in his vision.  
  
 _THWACK! THWACK!_  
  
John struggled out from beneath the corpse, unable to use his left arm to help himself. He used his right hand to push himself to his feet, the knuckles of his fist grinding against the bloody tile. He glanced back at Porter as the man fired the crossbow into the frenzied pack of zombies that had appeared as he was fighting for his life and nodded, the bones resetting  themselves painfully in his aching neck. Pins and needles prickled up and down his left arm, and he flexed his hand in an effort to return feeling so he could fight back. He holstered his gun and picked up the fallen knife, flipping it into the air and catching it in an ice-pick grip and sliding it home into its sheath. He pulled the Browning back out as the sounds of the creatures around them increased. They were slowly being surrounded.   
  
Porter nodded back and stepped forward. “Where’s Sarah?”  
  
John’s eyes went wide, and he jerked his head up, trying to see back the way he came over the heads of the hungry predators in front of him. He spotted a flash of blonde hair, and the distinctive sound of the Sig firing in a one-two staccato beat that made him smile with pride.   
  
“She’s fine. She’s with us.” He looked back to the commando. “Ready to do this, Sergeant?”  
  
The grin that spread across Porter’s face couldn’t be any more frightening and brilliant if he was a wolf. “Oh, fuck yes. Let’s show these sons of bitches why you really do not FUCK with Her Majesty’s Special Forces.”  
  
They turned, back to back, and engaged the enemy. ****  
  



	20. Don't Let Them See You Sweat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In where Mycroft is naked, freezing, and a bit annoyed. Also... bureaucracy sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD I AM SOOOOO SORRY. 
> 
> I really apologise for this whole thing...because SOMEONE had to go and POKE his BLEEDIN' head into this mess!
> 
> Yes. You will know who it is IMMEDIATELY.
> 
> *headdesk*
> 
>  
> 
> Ok. I do not know anything about British politics. Actually, I know jack about ANY politics. Also, taking liberties is apparently what I do, so.... don those suspenders.
> 
> ENJOY.

  
“Sir. There’s a few procedures we need you to complete before you come into the compound.”  
  
Anthea glanced up from her phone and locked eyes with her boss. Mycroft nodded with all of the nonchalance and poise he could muster. “I do hope, Corporal...” he peered at the man’s name patch, “Hyland, that these procedures you speak of are the ones I attempted to implement last year during the Anthrax scare. If they are, congratulations, you are all not as stupid as I once thought. Carry on.”   
  
The helicopter ride to this safe haven ( _he’ll be the judge of safe it really is_ ) had not been easy. The AgustaWestland Merlin was secure enough, being in the air, and whomever deemed him worthy of rescue had the transport helicopter hastily armed. The Brimstone missile pod definitely came in good use as he ordered the hotel demolished as soon as he had his feet on the metal floor. Amazing what a couple of those devilish air-to-surface missiles could do to such a stately brick hotel. They’d left the area quickly, and as they traveled over his ( _and Sherlock’s_ ) beloved city, he’d felt the beginnings of true horror and loss sink through his defences.   
  
His city. London. London has fallen. Fires burned unchecked, no fire brigade left alive to extinguish them. Store fronts were destroyed, vehicles and bodies lay discarded and abandoned like so much children’s playthings. The creatures, these things that were most likely created by the mind of some mad genius...they moved. In packs, mobs, even by themselves or in pairs. Some were slow, sluggish, dragging appendages or items behind them or falling over altogether, physically unable to continue on. But, he had noted with trepidation, some were faster, much faster. He’d watched as a group climbed over a fence, slowly but steadily. More agile. Smarter.  
  
“They are changing, sir.” The pilot had stated over the communications link in the flight helmets he and Anthea wore. The man’s voice sounded more than just mechanical.   
  
“You don’t say.” His reply had been dry and condescending, hiding the icy knot forming in the pit of his gut. He had looked again, dragging his eyes over the broken remains of the once proud city. _‘How was Sherlock going to survive this? How were any of us going to survive this?’_ He’d hastily reviewed and revised some of the plan that had taken root in his mind sometime between texts from his brother, as Anthea kept her eyes glued to that bloody phone of hers, and watched the world go by. Not his world anymore, but a world he’d have to live in all the same.  
  
He stared at Corporal Hyland, channeling as much mild disdain into his eyes as he could. _‘Unfortunately, my plan hadn’t included this development: I now stand at a checkpoint just before the wrought iron gates of this extremely familiar compound, please don’t tell me I am correct in my suspicions, apparently code-named Helm’s Deep, and someone please fire the misguided creature who thought that’d be a smart name, facing a trembling corporal and being asked to strip so they could search my body for bite marks.’_   
  
He sighed in mild exasperation.  
  
“Sir-”  
  
“Yes!” He took a slow, cleansing breath. _‘No need for anger.’_  His next words came out less clipped. “Just give me a moment.” He slipped the Windsor knot free and slid his tie off, holding the blood-spackled item out for his personal assistant to take.  
  
Anthea narrowed her sharp brown eyes at the young sergeant next to the puppy corporal as the man stepped towards Mycroft, the soldier’s hand tightening ever so slightly on the pistol grip of his assault rifle. “Sorry, sir. You won’t be keeping any of your clothing. We’re burning the lot.”  
  
The elder Holmes’ eyes widened at the sergeant ( _this one’s name is Donnegal_ ) for a bare moment, then fell back into nonchalance. “Very well.” He let the silk slip from his hands and flutter to the ground. His jacket and waistcoat followed. He paused for another moment, fingering the buttons of his once stark white shirt. He contemplated the rusty red stains, now fading and spreading. _Thadius_. With efficient movements fueled by a sudden anger, he unbuttoned the shirt and it too joined the growing pile of clothing on the ground. He glanced up to the security CCTV camera undoubtedly watching his every move, and felt a tiny bit exposed. His head barely moved as he rolled his eyes and opened his stained trousers and slid them down his legs. A soft hand on his shoulder gave him pause.  
  
“Sir.”  
  
He glanced up at Anthea.  
  
“Your shoes.”  
  
“Ah. Yes.” He toed them off as well as he could while bent over and finished removing the trousers. Then, in quick succession, came his boxers, garters, socks, and _oh why not_ his wristwatch. The band had blood on it, too. The new pile of clothes plus shoes joined the earlier pile courtesy of his bare foot. He lifted his head and stood proudly in front of the young, fit soldiers and his beautiful personal assistant. Completely naked. He willed himself not to turn into a beet in embarrassment, though he could feel heat running through his skin already. “I believe this will be satisfactory, yes?”  
  
“It will do just fine, sir.” The sergeant stood at a relaxed stance in front of him.  
  
The pavement dug into the soft soles of his feet like extremely rough sandpaper, and the minute grains of dirt and sand poked into the skin. He flexed his toes and continued to stare down Sergeant Donnegal. The soldier showed no signs of quailing under the public servant’s eye. A quick flick of the young man’s hand over his shoulder brought forward the biohazard team, resplendent in their Type 1 hazmat suits and frankly frightening looking diagnostic tools - _oh dear God_. He held in a grunt of dismay.   
  
Beside him, Anthea undressed completely and efficiently, stripping off her bloodied clothes and adding them to his pile, and stepped forward to her fate at the hands of the scientists and technicians, who surrounded the two survivors quickly. A sudden fire lit in the back of Mycroft’s brain as the soldiers working the checkpoint stared appraisingly at his assistant, but he tamped it down. _‘There is no need for an incident caused by decking one of these over-sexed and underpaid-’_ A cold, blunt instrument shoved rather roughly into a spot of his anatomy he didn’t really care for having something shoved into rather roughly completely halted his thought process. On the tail of a not-so-dignified squeak, he muttered, “You do realise they make oral models, correct?” He hoped the scathing tone in his words would get the point across to these quacks, because none of them were actually within glaring distance as they milled around him.  
  
“We don’t want to go near your mouth until we know for certain that you don’t have the virus, sir.” The technician’s voice rasped through the two-way radio attached to the mask he wore.   
  
Mycroft let out a very exasperated sigh that abruptly turned into a pained growl when the thermometer slid back out of his rectum. “They also have developed one that you can just swipe over a patient’s forehead or neck,” He remarked sullenly as hands roamed over his bare skin, searching for fresh blood, broken skin, or infected tissue. _‘I’m certain Dr. Watson would be kinder.’_  The examinations continued for what seemed to be a long time; in where Mycroft and Anthea were poked, prodded, rubbed, spread open, swabbed, beeped at and finally hosed down with what had to be the most horrific-smelling solution known to mankind...then they were offered generic robes and ushered into a nondescript black Lexus and swiftly driven to the main compound that Mycroft was now certain was MI6. The trip was rather quick, and he couldn’t quite see out of the darkened safety glass, but he could almost guarantee they were going into the bowels of the larger building. The trip inside the compound itself was the normal flurry of personnel and identification tags, but there was much less concern of who he was as there was of whether or not he was ‘alive’. Mycroft swallowed around the knot in his throat, and kept breathing evenly throughout the whole worker bee circus. After being completely divested of the rest of their belongings (thankfully, their phones had escaped the culling at the gates, but even those were removed from them now [“Security,” was the excuse]) as well as the briefcase, they were led into a richly furnished office, seated in the antique guest chairs and left alone. Mycroft barely waited until the door clicked shut before he stood and picked apart the entire room, starting with the bookcases along the padded walls (possible surveillance cameras). Anthea smiled at him while drumming the fingers of one hand against the plushly padded arms of the leather chair she occupied and using the other to hold the uppermost part of her bathrobe closed.   
  
“Soundproofed, sir.”  
  
“Yes. An astute observation.” He ran his long fingers along the tops of the books, pulling random ones to check the weight. “There’s a very high possibility we are being observed.”  
  
“The same setup you had at Baker Street?”  
  
“Of course. This is MI6, after all.”  
  
The door behind them opened slowly. Though Mycroft didn’t move, he could tell exactly who walked into the room. At the same time, he realised a bit too late that this person actually belonged here. This was his office. Mycroft was very, very interested now, and not a small bit irritated as he spotted the placard on the leading edge of the oak executive desk. _‘Of course_ he _would survive. Couldn’t have had a small miracle, now could we?’_  He turned to face Gareth Mallory and arranged the tight, icy smile of the politician on his face. “Hello, Mr. Mallory. Or, should I say...”  
  
“Oh, stow it, Holmes.” M flapped a weary hand at Mycroft. “Save it for the board.” Mycroft’s eyes widened a small amount, and Mallory graced him with a dry smile. “Yes. Even in an apocalypse, there is a damned board. How thrilling.” He sighed, and pointed at the chair Mycroft stood in front of. “They are not happy in the slightest. Go figure, right? Are they ever happy?”  
  
Mycroft laughed, low and polite. “Are their lot ever happy? I don’t believe so.”   
  
“Go on and sit down, we don’t have much time before they start beating down the doors of my inner sanctum to demand answers and solutions.”  
  
Both men sat down at the same time. Mallory leaned back in his chair, his face drawn and exhausted. Mycroft kept his back as straight as he could, being that he was unclothed in the presence of one of the most powerful men in the British Government - no. He could very well be the most powerful, now that the whole thing has come crashing down around them. For a moment, Mycroft felt a slight sympathy for Mallory, an almost...kinship. Oh. They could make this work in their favor, actually. He cocked his head and locked M with a penetrating stare. “Is there a possibility of acquiring clothing for myself and my assistant very soon?”  
  
Mallory nodded. “I’ve got people on it.” The corner of his mouth crooked up into an almost-smirk, and he leaned forward and folded his hands on the top of the ink-blotter on top of the heavy oak desk. “We have a lot to discuss, Holmes. One of the main things is that you are the last actual surviving member of the Home Office.” The man jerked his head down once, and Mycroft held his gaze stoically. “You knew this already, correct?”  
  
“No.” Mycroft shook his head. “It was always a possibility, but no, I was not aware that it was true.” He sighed. “I really don’t like being kept in the dark, Mallory. I’d like to know what’s going on here.”  
  
Another man walked into the office, straight to Mallory, and bent at the waist to whisper urgently to the head of MI6. After a moment, Mallory nodded and shooed the assistant away. “Sorry about that.” He smiled, a very tired one that Mycroft suspected was actually real. _‘This is a good sign.’_ He returned the smile. “If you could, Gareth.”   
  
The man’s eyes flicked, acknowledging the switch. “I’m afraid there isn’t much to say, Mycroft.” He sighed heavily, and seemed to sink into the chair. Anthea blinked. “We’ve got a mess here, and not enough people who actually know what’s going on to fix it. When I heard you were alive, I couldn’t help but to be a bit...overjoyed, really.”   
  
Mycroft laughed. “Really. You must be exaggerating.”  
  
“No. You can help me pick up after the chaos. You know a lot about how things are done. Also, you have the briefcase.” Mallory squinted at him, a very hard look in his blue eyes. “You are also a former field agent. I’ve seen the file. We could use that.”  
  
Mycroft nodded, barely even a motion of his head. “Nothing as exciting as, say...”  
  
The door opened again to allow another man in.   
  
“Oh, perfect. He survived. Of course he did.” Anthea muttered, nonplussed. Mycroft turned to face the newcomer and narrowed his eyes.  
  
He knew a Double Oh agent when he saw one, and he was certainly looking at one right now. The tall man seemed a bit scruffier than normal, and his very expensive suit hung off his shoulders in a stark display of really bad days, but the sharp light blue eyes and straight backed stance as he filled the room gave the game away.  
  
The way that quicksilver stare turned sensual and predatory as the man caught sight of Anthea told Mycroft exactly _which_ Double Oh he was.  
  
Anthea, to her credit, only sighed and returned the raking stare, and Mycroft could only roll his eyes at the smirk the agent sent her way.  
  
Mallory cleared his throat. “007. What of the others?”  
  
The agent’s head swung up to look at M. “Nothing as of yet, sir. 006 and I are working as fast as we can. If you would just let me use one of those Merlins-”  
  
“No, Bond.” The rebuttal was sharp, and obviously used more than once on this subject. Mycroft watched very carefully. The pleading look in the man’s eyes almost made him laugh.   
  
After a small staring contest with his boss, Bond snapped out a disgruntled “Fine” and turned a sharp about face.  
  
“Dismissed.” Mallory waved towards the door, but Bond was already gone, leaving the three alone in the room once more. “Sorry about that. Where were we... Oh. Yes. You.” He turned back to Mycroft. “No, you weren’t a Double Oh, but you were an agent. We need someone that knows things, knows how to fight the right way. You are our best bet.”  
  
“To what? Lead England once she gets back onto her feet?”  
  
“Oh, no, no.” Mallory shook his head emphatically.   
  
Mycroft now was slightly confused. “I’m sorry?”  
  
“Not once England is stable again. I’m talking about right now.”  
  
The icy knot that formed in the helicopter dropped to his feet. _‘No. Not part of the plan.”_ “Oh.” He shifted in his seat. “Well. Of course, Gareth.”  
  
“Yes.” M left his chair and rounded the desk. By habit, Mycroft rose to his bare feet and took the hand offered to him. “We’ll make a grand team, Mycroft Holmes. Our country is going to need us. I’ll get you squared away.” He shook hands with the elder Holmes and raked his eyes over the burgundy bathrobe. “Starting, of course with suitable clothing. Would you like some tea?”  
  
“Ah, yes that would be absolutely splendid - “  
  
“Fantastic. I’ll have someone bring it straight away.” M walked to the door, paused, and turned back around with a curious look on his weary face. “Mycroft. I’m glad you survived. I really am.”  
  
Mycroft found himself agreeing, despite the unsettling turn of events. “I’m glad you are as well, Gareth.”  
  
The man nodded, and closed the door behind him as he left.  
  
Mycroft looked down at his bare toes, and wiggled them.  
  
“Is...there something wrong, sir?”  
  
He sighed and looked back up at Anthea. “And here I was thinking that case of Sherlock’s in Dover where he ended up having to be pulled out of a septic tank by construction equipment whilst clutching a hard drive and a flask of tequila was the oddest day I’ve had. But this may beat it all.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a while to fend off the hunger pangs and the headache. “I’ve been strip searched and sprayed with God only knows what that concoction was. I’m freezing, naked save for this horrid toweling robe, barefoot in MI6, and have just been offered a joint leadership role by my former political enemy. All of this before tea.” His hand moved to his forehead and kneaded. “I think I may need something a bit stronger.”  
  
  
  
  
The office that had been found for him was...well, it was a cupboard. Much, much smaller than he was used to. Mycroft winced as he sat down in the marginally padded computer chair someone had scrounged out of a closet somewhere in Acquisitions. _‘Beggars can not be choosers, I suppose. If this is going to be a permanent thing, I’d like to have a larger office.’_ He sighed and shivered. Not that he really planned on staying long. For once, his family - what was left of it, anyway - actually meant more to him than some blasted official seat in the government. What did it matter, anyway? The whole world was finished. Done. Gone. There would be no England to govern, and the people who were left in this hell wouldn’t want to be governed by the same people who failed them in the first place. The suit that one of the random agents or worker bees found him didn’t fit right on his large frame, the trouser legs were too long and the arms of the jacket were too short, and the shoes pinched his pinkie toes, sending shooting pains all the way up into his knees. And he was hungry. Anthea looked only slightly more comfortable in her borrowed pantsuit and flats that were a half size too big. He peered at her for a moment, and smiled when she glanced up at him with a knowing twinkle in her bright green eyes. _‘Seems she is on the same page I am.’_ He happily plucked at the keypad on his mobile.   
  
“I’m not sure to whom you talked to get our mobiles back, but I am forever grateful to you.”  
  
She smiled up at him and motioned towards a wall jack. “I also found a charger that works with both. I’m not sure how reliable the source of power for this building is, but it should hold out for a bit longer. We are directly hooked up to the hydroelectric power plant and emergency generators.”  
  
Mycroft let a grimace through his facade. “It all depends on who’s available to run the plant. I wouldn’t give it any more than a couple more days.” He blinked and flicked through a few file folders. “I wonder how Sherlock is faring without the world wide web?”  
  
“I wouldn’t know.”  
  
Mycroft patted the top of the desk. “Now, to business. I assume your phone picked nothing up?”  
  
“Nothing at the moment. There could be passive surveillance, though - “  
  
A harried looking man rushed through the door without even a knock, silencing her. Mycroft dropped his head into his hands. “Mr. Holmes, we have a meeting in ten minutes.”  
  
“I’ll be there.” Mycroft leaned back as far as he could in the office chair and flapped one of his hands at the intruder, keeping the other to his brow. “Please disappear, you’re disturbing me.”  
  
The secretary looked at him funny, and obeyed. Mycroft stared down at his cup of tea, steaming at him pleasantly. He resented it. “Do you think he’s still alive?”  
  
She blinked at him. “He’s not answering any texts.”  
  
Damn. “Try Doctor Watson.”  
  
“I already have. He’s not responding, either.”  
  
Double damn. “Could they have lost power already?”  
  
“It’s a possibility. Or their phones could be useless now.”  
  
He sighed. “We wouldn’t know either way.”  
  
“No, we would not. Sorry.”  
  
“That isn’t good. I don’t like not knowing. If I knew, then it would be better. But this not knowing is rather unsettling.” He tapped at the keyboard in front of him. “I wonder if MI6 still has the same capabilities it used to.”  
  
“Actually, we do.”   
  
Mycroft barely restrained his startled jump as the ash blonde Double Oh slid out from the shadows by the door. _‘When the hell did he get in here?’_ “Really?” He folded his hands on top of the table to hide the slight tremors.  
  
Bond squinted. “Yes.” He stared at Mycroft. “I suppose you’d want access to our systems?”  
  
“That would be simply marvelous, 007.”  
  
Anthea shook her head in amusement as Bond’s lip curled up.  
  
“You don’t seem to be all that thrilled to be sitting here, Mr. Holmes.” The agent walked over to the desk and leaned his hip against it. He smelled faintly of sweat, gunpowder and explosives, and old blood.   
  
Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he noted Bond’s easy posture. This was a very dangerous thing, talking to an agent, especially a Double Oh. In this new world, he could be tried and executed for treason just as easily. But the definition of treason may have changed. _‘Perhaps Mallory had picked up on my discontent?’_ No matter. He studied Bond carefully. The line of his shoulders betrayed worry and exhaustion. His brow told tales of angry tirades aimed at anyone who would listen and a bottle he didn’t have to lie to get it to open up for him. His eyes were a cesspool that Mycroft didn’t want to delve into. _Sherlock_ would love to, but not him. He blinked. “Neither are you, 007.”  
  
The answering snort said it all, and also told him that he’d played the right hand. He pressed on. “I need you to get me into the system. Can you do that?”  
  
Bond sat for a moment, eyeing him up. Finally, he leaned to the side and grabbed the strap of a messenger bag Mycroft had missed. “Yeah. Give me a moment.” He pulled out a very slim laptop from the bag and tossed it back to the rug. “They haven’t given you full access yet?”  
  
Mycroft tapped a few keys on his keyboard and grimaced at the red AUTHORISATION DENIED pop-up blipping on the screen in front of him. “I’ve been here for an hour.”  
  
Bond stared at his own screen, typing furiously. “And they’ve known you were coming for over three. Bureaucrats and their games.” He stabbed a couple keys in disgust. “They were hoping you would say no, I think.”  
  
“Well, I didn’t really have a choice in the matter.” Mycroft frowned as his Home Office passcode failed as well. He tapped in a different one, which didn’t go through either. That one was his old old MI6, his last hold out and the one he’d deliberately left open for himself, just in case Sherlock got into trouble with the wrong people. Again. Ugh, this was vexing. He tried his personal passcode - no, that one didn’t work. Damn it.  
  
“Here.” Bond passed the laptop over. “Careful. Q said he’d feed me to the creatures he’s got trapped downstairs if I so much as spill coffee on this baby.” He chuckled. “Crazy bastard.”  
  
Mycroft cocked his head in curiosity. “If you don’t mind me asking - ?”  
  
Bond looked up from inspecting his torn trouser leg. “The things travel through the underground. Less light.” He shrugged. “The first power failure knocked the emergency...whatsits offline and the damned things got in. Q’s redundant systems came online much quicker than the rest of MI6, and he trapped them down there. Unfortunately, Q branch is now completely shut off.” He chuckled again, except this time it was a bit darker. His phone vibrated. “Well, speak of the devil. That would be him.”  
  
“What does the text say?”  
  
Bond squinted at the screen. “‘Prepare for a large explosion. It’s an experiment.’”  
  
A stab of pain radiated out from Mycroft’s chest as he thought of Sherlock once more.  
  
The agent cocked his head, his stoic face melting into a warm affection. “It’s not like we are going to hear -”  
  
A muffled ‘crack’ echoed up from the bowels of the building.   
  
Bzzzt. Bzzzzzzzt.  
  
Bond looked down again and laughed. “‘Still working on it. C4 is nice, but loud. Out of ramen. Sergei is complaining about my choice of music. I like Marilyn Manson, damn it. I still hate my life. Stop trying to hack into my computer. You suck at it.’” He shook his head. “That damned kid is going to bring down the whole building on himself.”  
  
Mycroft stared at the agent. “You aren’t concerned for his well being?” The maps were taking a while to load onto the screen.   
  
Bond grunted and shoved his phone back into the inside pocket of his jacket. “He’s got more weapons down there than the British military, and he knows how to use them all. He should. He made most of them. Besides, he’s not the only one down there. Three of his busybody technicians volunteered to stay with him.” He looked over at Anthea for a second, then turned his attention back to the elder Holmes. “Do you have everything you want? Your meeting’s in three minutes.”  
  
Mycroft scowled at the real-time maps of the Greater London area. Mother of God. He swallowed around the knot in his throat as his eyes took in the sheer amount of red in the vicinity of Baker Street. “Yes. Well, almost everything.” He weighed his chances of getting shot with his next question, then remembered Bond’s discussion with Mallory. He flicked his eyes up to Bond’s and took a slow breath. “How many helicopters does this facility have?”  
  
The skin around the agent’s eyes crinkled. “Three.”  
  
“Are they large?”  
  
Bond smirked in a decidedly deadly, mischievous way. “We have a Chinook.”  
  
Mycroft folded his hands away from the laptop keyboard and set his chin upon them. “Do you fly, 007?”  
  
Bond’s eyebrow crooked up. “Frequently, as the mission requires. Sir.”  
  
Mycroft smiled; a slow, predatory fluid motion. ‘ _I’ve got my pilot_.’  
  
“I would like to ask you to do something for me.”  
  
  
  
  
The harried man gestured at the paper map on the table in front of him. “As you can see, sirs, there is no - “  
  
 _Crack!_  
  
Bzzzt. Bzzzzzzzt.  
  
From the corner where he slouched in boredom, Bond closed his eyes and sighed. Mycroft couldn’t hide the smile on his face. Watching Bond and this ‘Q’ individual was much like watching Doctor Watson and Sherlock. A small lump formed in his throat again, and he forced it down once more.   
  
Twenty three men and women filled the small conference room on the fifth floor of the building, nearly to capacity. The secretary of some department of some Ministry that Mycroft couldn’t be bothered with learning about right now cleared his own throat and continued. “There isn’t much we can do for anyone left in the city. We have gotten as many survivors out as we can. We need to continue on with the next stage.”  
  
Mycroft stared at the file folders in front of him, and slid his eyes towards Gareth. The MI6 director looked as discomfited as he felt. They both knew what ‘stage’ was next. It was all in the manila folder in front of them. The military - well, what was left of it, anyway - had presented this at the beginning of this circus act. Mycroft tapped his finger ever so lightly against the oak table, and Mallory glanced over. Mycroft held his gaze and raised his brow a tiny bit. _‘This is our chance to nip this in the bud.’_   
  
Mallory nodded, barely a tip of his head. He was on board.  
  
The general to Mycroft’s left and three seats down stood up and took the whole room by storm.   
  
“Now that the codes and protocols are here, courtesy of our very own Mr. Holmes, brave chap, we can go ahead and implement them, and rid ourselves of the threat that these creatures pose to the free world!” Cheers and shouts rose up from the assembled officials, and the officer’s chest puffed out even more. He looked very proud of himself.  
  
“You mean nuke the city of London?” The room quieted as Mallory stood swiftly and stared down the general. “General Kent, I don’t think that is necessary quite yet.”  
  
“What do you mean, you don’t think it’s necessary!” A heavy set, balding man coughed into a handkerchief, making some people around him flinch reflexively. “London is already a loss. I feel sorry for the poor buggers left in it, but we don’t have a choice! If we don’t stop the spread of the disease now, we won’t have a country left!” he squawked.  
  
Assorted voices rose above the clamour that man created with his words, all fighting for supremacy. Mycroft pressed the heels of his hands to his eye sockets, trying to stave off the migraine trying to start. _‘God, this is ridiculous. Bureaucracy.’_ He stood and slammed his palms down onto the table. The loud bang got everyone’s attention. He drew a breath. “If I may?” He looked at Mallory, who nodded his acquiescence.   
  
Mycroft signaled Anthea, and she plugged the slim laptop into the projector on the table. A digitized map of London flashed onto the blank wall opposite of his vacated seat. He walked through the crowd, speaking as he moved. "This map has been updated from our geosynchronous satellites since this disaster began." The image on the wall flickered through pages, all the same except for the encroaching amounts and concentrations of red. "As you can see, for the last two weeks or so this pestilence has grown exponentially to envelop the entire globe, not just London." The map changed from London to a flat view of the Earth and went through the same sequence. "If we set off a nuclear device in the heart of this city, the only outcome will be hundreds if not thousands of courageous and dead citizens and an uninhabitable wasteland, useless to us for hundreds of years to come." He turned on his heel and addressed the room as a whole. "I've been out there. I have seen how bad it is. And it is, indeed, bad. But we can not _abandon_ our people! They are counting on us to save them. We are their only hope right now. Our main goal should be removing as many survivors as we can and then abandoning London completely, without using any of the weapons of mass destruction at our disposal." He spread his hands placatingly. “I would offer you all the first helicopter out, even. Preserve the last of the old governing party to create the new one wherever we settle next, and let the fine individuals in our military service handle the other extractions. We have to be the smarter animals in this scenario.”  
  
“But what about the zombies creatures out there?” The fat man interjected and coughed wetly into the kerchief again. Mycroft’s brain sent up a couple red flags, ones he didn’t dare ignore, not after what he’d been through. He stared icily at the man, and immediately began the mental checklist he’d created.  
  
“Mr....”  
  
“Colms, sir.” Cough.  
  
“Mr. Colms. The zombies would most likely follow after a while. We are nothing more than walking convenience snacks to them. Turning London into a desolate radioactive glass factory isn’t going to change that fact, nor will it help matters any. We aren’t even positive that -”  
  
 _Boom-CRUNCH!_  
  
Bzzzt. Bzzzzzzzt.  
  
Mycroft chuckled and didn’t even miss a beat. “- radiation works against these things. Most radiation sickness requires the tissue to be alive to begin with, and even burning the ‘live’ zombies does nothing more than turn them into walking torches...” He couldn’t help the self-indulgent smirk that crooked his lip up when a couple policy-makers turned ashen. “So. There is no need for the nuclear option. Certainly not if you want a world to govern. You know that once one nation goes nuclear, so will everyone else. We can’t afford another disaster on top of this one. Use your brains for once.”   
  
The room was silent for a beat, then erupted. He sighed.  
  
Bzzzt. Bzzzzzzzt.  
  
Bond frowned down at his phone and excused himself with a very slight nod in Mycroft’s direction. Mycroft felt a weight lift off his shoulders. ‘ _Perfect. The helicopter will be ours in a matter of hours._ ’ He turned back to the - oh my God - squabbling crowd. Mallory waved his arms over the incensed group of politicians and military officers. “Okay, alright. Yes. Calm down, please! Thank you, yes.” Finally, the dissent eased away to a rumble in the background.  
  
“I believe it would be best to adjourn for the time being, so Mr. Mallory and I can discuss our situation at length.” Mycroft smiled at the crowd, then turned it on M. “If we can?”  
  
“Yes.” Gareth turned to the room as a whole. “This meeting is adjourned until further notice.” **  
**


	21. Losing My Innocence One Life at a Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In where someone is hurt, someone doesn't want to go, and Sherlock is just trying to hold on to what he believes in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shakes head*
> 
> Ok. science-y bits: No idea. But it sounds good :D
> 
>  
> 
> ((hugs)) to everyone at Antidiogenes, they are saving my life right now :D

Slamming an undead corpse’s head into the side of a car and watching it crack open like an overripe melon, to pardon the cliche, was a surprisingly interesting experience. Sherlock stood up and didn’t even flinch when Sally dispatched the last zombie with her Sig. He looked down at his utterly wrecked trousers, then stared at his hands. Grimy, with the slime and blackened blood from the last three zombies he’d fought hand to hand with, which by the way he was never doing again. Ever. Again. His mouth twisted up into a half grimace and he wiped them off on his thighs as best as he could with the gun still locked in a death grip in his right hand, quickly running through his mental checklist of possible injuries and where they could be. Other than being a bit sore in the shoulders and knees, he didn’t feel any actual pain, nor did he feel sickly, which was superb. He wouldn’t have to explain to John how he’d managed to become a walking corpse while the doctor was gone. _‘Though,'_ Sherlock thought to himself, _'that would be a rather one sided conversation, really. ‘Sherlock, how the hell did you do this?’ ‘Grahhhhh...mhreaaaaah...’ Certainly not very communicative, zombies.’_ He halted in place, nearly dropping his handgun in revelation. _‘Oh. Oh! I wonder if they can communicate between themselves? They’d have to, wouldn’t they? At least to convey their intentions to eat humans. Perhaps the moaning and growls served as a language to them?_ ’ He blinked a bit and tilted his head to one side as his brain barreled down the new track of thought.

“What exactly is the freak doing?” Sally holstered her gun and put her hands on her hips. Tim turned around and looked over at the man in question.

“Not sure. Hey, Sherlock!”

Sherlock jerked as if a bolt of electricity jolted through him. “Zombies may be able to communicate.”

The two officers blinked as their brains attempted to assimilate the apparent non sequitur. Finally, Sally gave up. “What on God’s green earth are you on about?”

Sherlock flapped a hand at them. “Nevermind, not important, not enough evidence to support the theory yet. I’m going to look into it the next time a horde shows up.” He shook his head. “Let’s get inside before they do.” He blinked at the sudden euphoric feeling that washed through the sensors in his brain, and the numbness that seemed to take up residence in his outer extremities. As an afterthought, he thumbed the release catch on the Browning and dropped the empty magazine, replacing it with the last one he had shoved into the back of his trousers. His mind wheeled around giddly in his skull, along quite a few different mental train tracks that most likely would lead nowhere, due to the exhaustion setting into his bones and muscles. He didn’t remember the last time he felt this exhausted or alive - well, there was the first overnight battle they had, the first big attack by the creatures, but he’d been safe on the rooftop, not down on the ground - and it felt amazing. He allowed the laughter that bubbled up from his chest out.

Greg, who was leaning half out of the open bay window of the flat, muttered something, and Sally shouted up to him.

“What was that, boss?”

“I said I’m going to need something much harder than beer for this shit,” he shouted back at her, and Sherlock nearly collapsed, the laughter becoming a thing he couldn’t control. He was alive! He’d survived, and without John to hold his hand and show him the way! He felt amazing! The grin on his face, he could tell, bordered on manic, but he no longer cared. He’d survived. Brilliant.

“Are you alright?” Sally was at his side, a soft hand between his shoulder blades. He almost jerked away, but stopped when the logical part of his brain told him ‘she’s not going to hurt you, you doofus. No one here is going to hurt you.’ He sucked in a breath of cool air.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. No, I’m more than fine. We are alive. We are more than fine, we are golden!” He turned that manic grin on her. “It feels like a supernova out here.”

Sally stared at him. “Are you alright?”

“You already asked that!”

“And I’m asking again, you berk!”

She drew her hand away slowly and let him straighten up from where he had been gripping his knees in his mirth. By Jove, his back hurt! He could feel the vertebrae snapping and shifting back into place.

“I. Am fine. Just a bit exhilarated to be alive.” He hummed. “And the sun is going down. We should really head back inside before they start moving in earnest.” As he walked away from Sally, he felt so light he could fly. He’d held off a zombie attack by himself, without John to assist. He could take on the world... The grin reclaimed his face and he hummed ‘Liebesleid’ under his breath as he pulled out his phone. He hit 1 and put it to his ear. It rang. And rang. Then, it rang some more until-

“Hello! You have reached Doctor John Wa-”

“I don’t want your voicemail, John.” He pressed the ‘end’ button and grumbled. He opened the messaging and sent a text, one he hoped would not be met with disdain.

_I adore you. Let’s have dinner._

He smiled a private little smile as he led the way back to the flat. Marth was going to be so proud of him!

  
  
  


****

“So, I’m actually wondering if maybe we shouldn’t block off the main entryway entirely. You know, to keep the zombies from coming in.” Greg scratched his head roughly with his fingernails. “Then leave by the fire escape.”

He and Sherlock stood in the the front hall, near the staircase leading to 221B, inspecting the wreckage of the once sturdy door. Now that he felt more...grounded, if you will, Sherlock could actually think clearly, and he scowled at the offending piece of old wood that used to keep out the weather and unwanted visitors. _'Damn thing couldn’t even hold up to a mob of zombies, what if it’d broken down under a tonne or so of rampaging paparazzi or upset gang members out for my hide? Not like i’d have to worry about that anymore...'_ He turned back to Greg and cut off that line of thought entirely. ' _No need to think about the has been. Only now. Just like John said. Only now.'_

“I couldn’t get through to John on his mobile. He hasn’t returned my message either.”

The older man looked at him, and Tim piped up from the top of the stairs. “I’m sure they are fine.”

“That wasn’t what I was alluding to, but the vote of confidence for our intrepid and idiotic doctor and his lovely girlfriend is appreciated, Anderson.” Sherlock picked at his fingernails and glared at the gaping hole in the foyer once more for good measure. “What I meant was he wouldn’t know of the development until he comes back, and I wouldn’t want him to either leave without us thinking we were already gone, or become rather upset at the extra work he’d have to do to get into the flat with all of the things he plans on bringing back with him.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it was all that grand of a plan to gather so much added items that we will all have to carry, in hindsight. Unless he locates a little trolley to carry things with.” The mental image of John dragging a Red Ryder wagon behind him made him smile. The next image had Gladstone tied to the wagon like a miniature sled dog, and it nearly made him laugh out loud. “Though we could tie it to Gladstone.”

As predicted, Greg snorted in mirth. “And wouldn’t that be a sight!” He smiled at Sherlock. “Okay, yeah, I get what you are saying. Tim, come on down here.”

As Tim hobbled down the stairs, he examined the doorway. Both men on the lower floor watched him carefully. He’d twisted his knee when a faster zombie had grabbed his shoulder and tried to eat him. Sherlock had reacted quickly, but the act of pulling the thing off Anderson’s back had done damage. In his gut, Sherlock knew that if they needed to walk out of London that Anderson would most likely be too slow to keep up. The twang in his chest at the thought didn’t go without notice. ( _‘Friend?’_ _Possibly, now_.) “You know, we could just tack the door back into place with planks and tear them off when John and Sarah get back.”

“Give me a good reason, one good reason, why we should block off this entrance to begin with,” Sherlock growled.

Greg didn’t miss a beat. “We’d be safer in the flat. We are safer in the flat. I’ve got a good idea about defensible positions, and if we could manage to get the lower areas blocked off before we lose power, we’d be able to defend better.” He took a quick breath. “We’ve got the higher ground here, and we should be utilising that instead of having people either at the door or out in the street. It’s like hanging a fat juicy steak in front of a rabid dog’s face - no, a Tyrannosaurus Rex’s face. Seriously. These things are not even remotely of this world, and we are just asking for trouble by meeting them head on like this.” He ran his hands through his hair again. “Good enough reason, yeah?”

Sherlock thought about that. He really actually thought about it. It made all the sense in the world. Greg did know what he was talking about, after all. He was the only other one with any sort of training, and right now he was the only one. And, as much as he loathed to admit it, he could very well be the only one from now on. The lack of contact with John was tweaking at the nerves in his neck and shoulders. He felt like snapping on Greg, but he held back with the fibres of his being that weren’t being used to keep his mind from shattering. His friend ( _ooh, yes, Greg is a friend, good_ ) wasn’t entirely stupid. Everything he said was true. They did have the so called ‘high ground’, and it was silly not to make use of the advantage. Sherlock screwed up his face into a moue of unease. He really wished he could at least talk with John, even just to let him know of this. He poked at his phone again, but found that the battery was dead. Damn it. He looked first at Greg, then at Tim. They were watching him, expecting some sort of reply. What were they talking about again...oh.

“Okay. Yes. That reason will have to do for now.” He walked to the doorway and examined the jamb with his eyes and the tips of his fingers. “I’ll keep attempting to get ahold of John. Do we still have material enough to complete this project of yours? What sort of material would we use? Should we attempt to use the original door as a support for the blockade?” He paused. “Or metal. Do we have...no, we don’t.” The skin between his brows scrunched up as he delved into his brain for answers, completely ignoring the nattering of the men behind him as they started their own discussion based on his questions. Calculations and numbers zinged and swam in his vision as he remembered the dimensions of the door itself, the jamb, the amount of wooden planks not yet used, the number of nails in their possession, hammers, build time, noise allotment...His brain clicked over to a map of Baker Street as a whole, plucking information about the various businesses and buildings on the street. His head jerked back up as he grabbed onto what he was looking for. “Oh! Perfect! Sheet metal. I’m a genius. The pub down the road has some in the back alleyway. I should still have a dolly lying around here somewhere, maybe under something in the attic...we could use it to haul the metal back here. Greg, I’ll take you with me to get it, of course. Remember, John said not to go outside without back up. I’m taking back up. I’m not an idiot, unlike most of this world.” He clapped his hands together and grinned. “Tim?”

“Yeah?” Tim turned away from Greg and cocked his head.

“See if there are any metal screws for the power drill in John’s kit. It’s by the couch.”

“Alright.” He hobbled back up the stairs, and Sherlock saw Greg wince. He held in his own feelings for a while longer, at least until the man was completely out of earshot.

“There is a very good chance that we won’t be taking him with us.”

Greg sighed and leaned on the bannister. “That’s not an option, Sherlock.”

“If we are going to make it out of here alive, we have to consider -”

“No, Sherlock. We can’t leave him behind. He’s a good shot, and John will be back to take a look at his knee. Maybe it’s just a strain.”

“We have no way of knowing if John is even alive, Lestrade!” Sherlock took a breath and lowered his voice once more. “I can’t reach him. He always answers his phone. Always. Especially now that we are all in grave danger.”

“His phone may just be dead like yours.”

“He charged it before he left.” Sherlock ran both hands through his hair and groaned. “This is ridiculous, he should have never left, we should be gone already, we shouldn’t even _BE HERE_!” He dropped down to his haunches and grabbed at his hair. “This is a complete wreck of a day.”

Greg pushed off the wooden support railing and knelt by the despairing man. “No. Don’t think like that, Sherlock. He’ll be back. If anyone can survive out there, it’s him. Trust me. When have I led you astray?”

Sherlock looked up at his friend, his eyes damp with tears. “Too many times to count.” Greg made a noise of mock disapproval, and Sherlock took a steadying breath, and stood back up. “But I shall take your advice for now. And we will leave in the morning if John hasn’t returned.”

Greg nodded. “Sounds like a shit idea, but a good plan.”

Sherlock returned the gesture. “That doesn’t even make any sense out of context, Greg." A pause, then: "I apologize.”

“Don’t.” The inspector gave him a soft smile. “No apologies for having a freak out. Do you feel better, at least?”

“A bit.”

“Sometimes it’s good just to get the feelings out, instead of risking that insane mop of hair.”

“Hair can’t be insane, it’s dead keratin.”

“That’s the Sherlock I know. Come on, let’s get going on this before the night’s over.”

Sherlock nodded and turned back to the doorway to continue his investigation.

“I think we should still be able to use the door, if we just turn it around and attach the hinges that weren’t destroyed or bent out of shape to the other side of the jamb, like this.” He held up his hands to the right side of the doorway and mimed the hinges opening and closing. “We won’t really worry about reopening the door, so we should be as thorough as we can be. We can’t take the chances of not being aware of a zombie invasion and then being caught without a way...out...” He trailed off as his mind took off on another tangent entirely.

Greg watched him expectantly, used to this sort of thing. In his mind, he was really really glad that this part of Sherlock was still functioning as well as it was. He waited patiently for the young man’s deduction - or rather, his discovery, judging by the look of delight on his face...wait, not delight anymore. Greg leaned forward just a tad. Was that dismay? A sudden curse escaped from Sherlock’s mouth.

“Damn it. Stairs. Something about the stairs....we need to do something about these stairs!” He gestured behind him at the seventeen steps leading to the flat. “We need to make sure that the creatures can not reach 221B in case the reinforcements fail, or we have to reopen the door for some reason.”

“What makes you think they can climb?” Greg wasn’t getting it.

Sherlock paused, and threw his hands up into the air. “Are you kidding me?” He flicked his eyes to Greg and leveled a very disappointed glare in his direction. “Don’t be a complete idiot, Lestrade. Have you forgotten how easily they pulled themselves onto the lorry you were taking shelter on during the really big attack?”

Greg winced. Yeah. Duh. “I...sort of took a page from your book and deleted that.”

“Deleted? Deleted it? Greg, you idiot, that is the sort of information that you need to hold on to!” Sherlock spun on his heel and stalked over to the older man, grabbed his shoulders, and shook. “That is the sort of experience you need to remember because it will come to use in the future. Like right now. No wonder I had to do all the work before.”

“Oi!”

“It’s the truth. You need to prioritize in order to make your mind efficient. Take what is no longer necessary and get rid of it to make room for things that matter. Forget the rugby scores from four weeks ago, remember that zombies can and indeed do climb to reach their prey. They will do anything to reach their goal of eating. And they communicate in order to do so, they have to! How else would they get so many of them together?” Sherlock let go of Greg and backed up a bit, throwing his elegant and dirty hands into the air once more. “Once again, I am surrou-”

“Surrounded by idiots, yes, we get it, you are smart and the rest of us are useless.” Greg sighed and rubbed his temple. “So, these things can climb. In theory, because do you really think they have the balance necessary to navigate stairs?”

Sherlock shot him an exasperated ‘stop being so stupid’ stare. “Railing, Greg.”

“So knock off the railing!”

“No, that won’t work, because if they fall down, they will just crawl.” Sherlock groaned again. “Simple.”

“Ok, what do you suggest then?”

Sherlock stood, silent, staring at the other end of the hall. Mrs. Hudson - Martha - had a rather kitschy floral portrait hanging there. He’d never noticed it before. There was a lot he didn’t notice, apparently. So much for being observant. “Knock out the whole thing.”

“What?”

He spun around and gripped Greg by the shoulders again, but didn’t shake him this time. “The staircase. Knock out the whole staircase, take it down entirely. Pay attention.” He peered hard into the man’s face. “We have to block off the alleyway, too, then, because of the fire escape! God, I’m an IDIOT!” He shot up the stairs, once again leaving Greg staring at the swirling dust motes in the orange light of the dying sun where the genius once stood, head spinning in the aftermath of the hurricane that was Sherlock Holmes.

“The  more things change."

  


****

****

Sherlock met up with Molly in the makeshift lab. She looked like she was in the middle of something important, poking around with a microscope and a couple petri dishes. The autoclave and the centrifuge were both running, and she looked frazzled and bent out of shape. He walked over to her and tapped her on the shoulder, startling her enough that she dropped the test tube in her hand. With a quick motion, he grabbed it out of the air, took the pipette out of her other hand, took a quick look at her notes, and added the correct amount of the base solution into the tube. “What’s next?”

Molly breathed deeply to calm her jangled nerves, and stuttered out an apology. Sherlock glanced sidelong at her. “I’m not reading your notes, Molly Hooper. What. Is next?”

“Um, the red liquid.”

“What is it?”

“Something I’m working on. It’s... well, it could be a... I’m not sure yet. I think I may have come up with some sort of...vaccine.”

Sherlock nearly dropped the tube himself. “Molly. Do not tease me. Do not lie to me.”

“I-I’m not lying, Sherlock”

“A vaccine?”

“Possibly. I don’t know. Just add the red stuff, please?”

Sherlock did exactly that, and then handed the pipette and tube back to the woman and snatched up the Moleskine notebook from the table. He flipped all the way to the beginning and started reading.

“Thought you said you weren’t going to read my notes.”

“I’m very interested in what you’ve come up with, Molly. I am reading your notes now because they are actually relevant.”

“Sherlock - “

“No, go back to what you were doing, no time to talk, you need to get this done before the power goes out, it’s important, imperative that you get this done tonight, do you hear me? Why didn’t you come get me when you got this idea?” He pointed at a spot on the paper from yesterday, and Molly blushed.

“You were sleeping. I didn’t want to disturb you."

“Nonsense. You can wake me up at any time, especially when it’s important things like this, you know this, Molly, this is brilliant!” He sat down on a stool and stuck his nose further into the book. “How did you come up with this? I wouldn’t have thought of this, at least not right away.”

“It wasn’t easy, it had me awake all night with worry. I just kept thinking about how we could block the diseases from reaching the brain to begin with. It’s not a cure all, though.” She sighed as she put the newest test tube into a heater, and stopped the centrifuge. “I finally had to come down and start working on it. Greg pulled me away earlier to - um - take my mind off it for a while - “

“Have sex.”

“Yes. Um, well, yes. But I came right back in here when you came up and said that you needed his help - “

“Ended up not needing it after all, I didn’t hear the big gun going off.”

“He said that you guys were pretty much wrapped up by the time he got up there and got the sniper rifle figured out anyway.”

“We were, it was a small group. Not much to them.” Something grabbed his attention, and he snapped the notebook closed. “Oh. Molly. Have you noticed something about the zombies?”

“Like what?”

“How they are changing.”

She froze. “How.”

“What do you me-”

Molly turned from the centrifuge, a vial of off-white liquid in her hands. “How are they changing, Sherlock?”

“Ah. Well. They seem to be faster.” He stood up and walked over to her. “The group earlier, while small, had a mixture of newer - fresher, if you will - creatures and older, more damaged creatures. The newer ones seemed to be...faster. Smarter. More keen to work together to bring one of us down. One even ducked, or seemed to do so...” He peered at her. “Is this something important? I think it is.”

“How many of them were there? The new ones.”

“Four or five. They still died if we shot them in the head, just as easily as the others.” He shrugged. “But they were still different.”

“Damn it.”

“What?”

“They are evolving.”

Sherlock leaned forward. “Evolving?”

“Yes.”

“How the hell are they evolving, Molly? Things like this don’t evolve.”

“Yes, they do. To preserve the virus.”

He stared at her. “Explain.”

Molly looked at him, leveled a very serious stare at him. “A virus is engineered to survive. It latches onto the host’s DNA and changes to do so. And just like with superflus and other medication-resistant diseases out there, they will take bits of the DNA with them and evolve to become stronger, quicker, and...more likely to survive. I don’t have any hard evidence to prove this theory, but I think that is what this zombie virus is doing. It’s evolving.”

“But what is it doing?”

“Well, I think what is happening is that the original virus is killing the hosts too quickly. But I don’t know, I don’t have a sample to work with.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you need one?”

“I don’t know if I want to try to capture a live zombie to find out, you know. It could be really bad.”

“I don’t care, we could get all of your things out of the basement and keep it down there.”

“But how, Sherlock?” She set the vial on the table after making notes about it. “No, I think the circumstantial evidence will be enough this time. Don’t go out looking for trouble, okay? Promise me you won’t.”

After a moment of scowling, Sherlock nodded. “I promise I won’t go out and find a zombie for science, as much as I am loathe to even be saying this, Molly, it’s SCIENCE.”

“Okay, thank you.” Molly laughed. “Do you want to help me now?”

“God, yes. But then I need to go see about the alley. You have fifteen minutes of my time.”

  
  
  


****

Martha found her tenant - the original one, of course - half hanging out of the second floor bedroom window, only his hands on the window frame supporting him, muttering about the density of the larger green refuse skips and how easily they would be able to block the mouth of the alley behind the building. The shadows played over his back and hair, creating a sort of artistic backdrop to his occasional flailing when he lost his grip and nearly tipped out head first onto the fire escape. She watched for a moment, holding in her laughter at the daft man as he cursed, muttered, lost his balance again and actually did fall out of the window. After a clattering and one good thunk, his normally dulcet voice rose in frustration as he gripped the window frame once more and pulled himself upright while cursing God, England, London, zombies, and his own height to weight ratio.

“Sherlock, dear, what are you doing?”

“I’m busy. Please be quiet.”

The older lady complied, a small smile on her face.

Sherlock paused. ' _That wasn’t right.'_   Normally, she would continue nattering on, annoying him (and on special occasions drawing him out of a dark mood) until he yelled at her. This silence was disturbing him as much as a full marching band on parade. He let out a sigh and turned around. “What is it, Martha?”

She smoothed down the front of her floral print skirt and pressed her lips together.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, opened his mouth to tell her to just talk, and halted. His jaw snapped shut and really looked at her. _'She has jewelry on, costume jewelry. She is wearing her normal house shoes. She’d been busy cleaning up the kitchen when he’d gotten done with Molly. The noise from downstairs didn’t even seem to bother her, almost as if she’d resigned herself to a fate'..._ Oh.

_Oh._

She hadn’t been packing with the rest of them. She wanted to wait until John got home, so she could ask him for help. But John would most likely want to leave immediately, if he even came back. She would know this. But she didn’t pack. Rather, she hadn’t packed at all.

He blinked as the pieces fell into place in his mind and his world cracked apart at the seams.

“No.”

Martha - his sweet, motherly landlady, his rock in stormy seas, his - ( _Mrs. Hudson, leave Baker Street? England would fall!_ )... “You can’t.” Definitive. Forceful. Unrelenting.

“I’ll only slow you young ones down, dear.” She gestured towards her body. “My hip, you know.”

Anderson, now Martha. “Mrs. Hudson!” His voice faltered on the last syllable. This...could not be happening. Not now. Not when they were so close to escaping this hell!

“I can’t come with you, dear.”

He couldn’t breathe. His chest was encased in lead. He knew his mouth was open in some parody of speech, but nothing was forthcoming.

“You go on and use that brilliant brain of yours and think. I’m much too old to be traipsing around London with you now. I’ll be a hinderance, and when I fall behind, it will only be worse. Here, I’m as snug as a bug, and with that work you three boys are doing downstairs, I’ll be even safer.”

Sherlock could feel his head shaking in the negative even as his brain, the most logical part of it, processed what she said and agreed. He felt numb, outside of himself. ' _This was not happening to me.'_   She reached out and took his hands into hers, and all he could feel was the pressure, his skin was useless. He could still feel the pricking in his eyes that he recognized as a precursor to tears.

“You know I’m right, Sherlock, dear.”

“You can’t.” The demand was more of a plea. “Please don’t do this.” He was damned well going to beg if he had to. _To hell with England, I will fall. We will all fall._

“You know I’m a stubborn lady.”

“Please.” Begging.

She gathered him into her arms and squeezed tightly. “I’ll be alright. I won’t leave this building. There’s all this food here, the things we are leaving behind, I will be set for a while.”

“No, Martha. You can’t stay behind, and that is final!” He buried his head into her shoulder to hide his face. The tears were falling now. “You just can’t. I know you are right, but I won’t allow it.” He stayed there, in her arms, for a long while. He jerked upright when a thought crossed his mind. “I’ll be back!”

He ran downstairs and snatched his mobile off the charger, startling Sally where she sat on the couch, crying. He stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“Tim. He’s stayin - “

“The hell they are! They are not staying behind, and that is final, I don’t care!” Sherlock shouted out the open door leading to the racket downstairs. He turned back around to Sally. “Get up. Please get up and help them.”

Sally sniffled and pushed off of the couch. “How are we going to - “

“John is a doctor, he was in a war, he can get Anderson going again. And no one is leaving anyone behind, I promise. Now go down and help them.”

“Okay.” She smiled a watery smile and walked out of the flat. He nodded after her, pleased that at least one person was listening to him right now. He ran back up to John’s room (damn it, no one’s room, because they were leaving and that is that, no one is staying behind) and to Martha.

She sat on the bed, wringing her hands and crying silently. Sherlock sat next to her and powered up his phone.

“I’ll get John to talk you out of this, because he’s even more stubborn and can talk the logic out of everyone around him.” He pressed the ‘call’ button.

Nothing. He frowned. “That’s odd, not even a dial tone.”

He tried again. This time the screen blinked **Phone Not In Range**  at him. He scowled and tried his brother’s phone.

**Phone Not In Range**

His stomach plummeted to his feet. He tried Greg’s mobile. He was just downstairs. His should -

**Phone Not In Range.**

He blinked, and launched the iPhone at the wall, shattering the useless piece of junk into jagged pieces of scrap in a fit of sudden and blinding rage. Martha jumped in shock. He stood, trembling in the middle of the room, for a moment. Just until he could get all of his emotions reigned in once more. No one could afford to lose their minds right now, especially him. Not now. He turned back to his dear landlady, and he was in complete control.

“The satellites, or however Mycroft was managing to keep our mobiles online, are down. I can no longer reach John nor Mycroft. We are well and truly on our own, more so than ever before.” He ran tired hands (still dirty) through his hair. “At least until John returns. If he returns. When he returns.” He shook his head, and took a deep breath. Then another.

“Oh. Well.” Martha gripped the hem of her skirt. “That’s not good, is it?”

“It’s amazing how attached we are to technology, and how much we don’t realise it until it all comes crashing down. To think, we are going to have to go back to smoke signals, because we don’t even have a working mail system anymore.” He paused. “Though we could use horses. The Pony Express. Should be interesting.” He looked at her, and sat down once more, and tried something he used with Sarah. He put his arm around her shoulders. She melted into his side and cried harder, actually making noises now. He patted her shoulder with his hand. “It will be fine. You are not going to stay behind, Anderson is going to be fine, we will all be fine. John will come home. He will have Sarah with him. Everybody will leave this flat together, and come Hell or high water, we will make it to my childhood home. I have the directions. I promise you, if you get bit I will be the one to shoot you.”

Martha choked out a laugh. “Oh my word, thank you Sherlock!”

“Always a pleasure to be of service to my dear landlady.” The words stuck on the lump in his throat, but he swallowed it down.

  


****

Greg hefted the assault rifle in his hands and scanned the area around them in a three hundred and sixty degree arc with the scope while Sherlock peeked around the corner, dolly in hand. The whole trip up the street, Sherlock was...different. No, not different; it was if a switch had been thrown and the nicer, kinder version of him was gone. Now, he had the time to ask, because he didn’t see any movement and they were to some sort of cover.

“Sherlock?”

“Shut up. The zombies may be around.”

Greg sighed. “They aren’t, and Gladstone would be going berserk if there were any.” The pup currently had more interest in the heel of Sherlock’s dress shoe, and panted up at the grey-haired man. “The coast is clear, as they say.”

“Good. Then let’s get the metal sheets and get back before they do show up.”

“Alright, fine. Whatever.” Greg gave up trying.

The two men made their way into the darkly shadowed alleyway. The sun had sunk until only the very top of it could be seen over the lower buildings, and soon even that would be gone, sinking the whole street into the darkness that used to mean chases and crime-solving for the detectives, but now only meant death and infection. They found their bounty quickly, thanks to the torches they’d brought, and Sherlock loaded the sheets as quickly and quietly as he could, taking care to avoid injuring himself on the sharp edges of the metal.

“This should do.” He grunted and pulled the dolly upright, bracing the scraps of metal with one hand and handing his torch to Greg. “Shove that into your belt or something. Let’s get back before the creatures start coming out.”

“What’s the hurry, Sherlock?” Greg couldn’t help himself anymore. “You didn’t seem worried about zombies earlier, and we’re armed to the teeth right now. You’re too paranoid. We’ll be fine!” He smiled, hoping beyond hope that maybe he’d get through to the daft man with that dig.

Sherlock looked at him. “No. We can’t afford to be complacent. They’re evolving, they’re getting faster, and I don’t know what to do about that.” He pushed the dolly over the rough ground and winced at ever pot hole he hit. Greg rushed after him.

“What the hell do you mean, evolving? Sherlock, what the hell do you mean?”

“For the love of God!” Sherlock halted and pinned Greg with a hard stare. “Evolving. Molly explained it to me. The zombies that are currently being made by the old one are faster. Stronger. Smarter. They are retaining some sort of intelligence and becoming less damaged by the disease. The virus is evolving to survive. This disease is not going to die out, it’s going to continue on. We can’t wait this one out.”

“That’s what you were hoping for, weren’t you? To wait it out until it dies out.”

Sherlock tossed his head in frustration, frustration that Greg could now see wasn’t directed towards anyone, but to the world at large. “Yes. I had a hope which has been completely dashed, and now we have the worst case scenario.”

“Which is?”

“An evolving virus that only acts on the human race, and will eventually outsmart even the smartest people in science. We have the fucking common cold, only on a mass extinction level.”

Greg chuckled at the sheer irony of it all. “Great.”

“Yes. Great.” Sherlock leaned the dolly against the brick wall of the pub. “Martha wishes to stay behind, and so does Anderson.”

“I know. Well, about Anderson.” Greg winced. “I didn’t know about Martha. Jesus, what is going to happen?”

“I don’t know. I’ve thought about walking until we find a vehicle, but what are the odds of finding one in good condition and not trapped by others on the road? We need something perfect, something that can hold everyone and all of the equipment we will have with us. We’ll need something with fuel. Extra fuel. We will need something that will protect us from the creatures, so possibly reinforced. Where in the hell are we going to find something like that?”

Greg shook his head. “Most cars around here are just that. Cars. We could get a lorry, but then we’d have to find diesel, and that’s even harder to do.”

“I don’t know what is going to happen, but either way, we will all be leaving tomorrow morning, with or without John and Sarah. But not without Anderson and Martha.” Sherlock paused and cocked his head. “That sounds incredibly stupid in my mind, Greg. Why not wait for John and Sarah, too?”

“Because John gave all of us an order, and he’s not here right now. The other two are.”

“Logical. Idiotic, hating it, but logical nonetheless.” He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “Okay. Fine. Another problem. The phones no longer work.”

Greg cocked his head. “Well, that was coming.”

“I know, but I’m still rather upset over it.”

“I don’t blame you. What did you do with yours?”

“I threw it against a wall.”

“Why?”

“Like I said, I am still rather upset over it.”

Greg nodded. “That’ll do it. Okay.” He pulled his out and looked at it. “A very expensive paperweight now.” He cranked his shoulder back and threw it as far as he could. They watched it hit the road and explode into its component parts. “Well, that was a bit good. Would have felt better to do that back when I was a D.I. . Now it feels like I’m letting go of something precious.”

Sherlock agreed with him. “Let’s get back to the flat and get to work.”

 


	22. Blessed Are the Strong Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful, brilliant zombie action! John, Sarah, and Porter continue their adventures in Tesco Extra in this chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this is a work of fiction, AND an AU. *sunglasses sliding down* Deal with it.
> 
> Ok, thank you to everyone at Antidiogenes for this one too. This one took a bit longer because of a funeral and wow nature sucks major donkey! 
> 
> ACTION!

“This whole thing is an unholy -” grunt THUNK “ - mess!” John extracted the Ka BAR from a man’s head and twisted at his hip to send the crippled creature toppling into a display of Walkers crisps. “Besides that, who the hell would put a crisps display in the bedding aisle?”

“I wouldn’t know, I don’t work here.” Sarah pulled the trigger again, dispatching another zombie with a very well placed bullet. The contents of the thing’s head splattered against the shelving. “Never did, either.”

Porter grinned, dumped a older lady-thing onto the floor with a leg sweep and stomped on her face, his boot nearly going through to the floor. “What, people get hungry searching for the right duvet for their four bloody post bed, John? Didn’t you know that?”

“So go to the damned food section. I don’t want to be tripping over sea salt crisps while dying, thank you!” He launched a back kick high into a zombie’s chest and sent it staggering backwards down the aisle.

“Come to think of it, I’m hungry right now.” Porter snapped off a bolt at a slobbering accountant that rounded the corner, the bolt burying deep into the thing’s forehead. The soldier ran forward and jerked the bolt out of it before another zombie could grab him. “Really hungry.”

“So grab a bag, I’m just not covering your arse when one of these bastards decides to make a meal out of you.” John snorted and shot a former footballer in the face and kept moving down the aisle, Porter on his back and Sarah to the side of him.

“No thanks.”

“Then maybe we’ll stop at McDonalds on the way back to the flat.”

“Egads, had that enough when I went to the U.S.. No thank you there, too.”

“Jesus, is there an end to these things?” John grunted as he shoved his knife deep into the throat of another creature and yanked sideways, nearly severing its head. The thing toppled under the attack, its mangled jaw still trying to bite. They stayed in a very tight-knit group, save for when Porter broke ranks to pick up his bolts.

“Not that I can see. Damn it.” Porter grunted as a zombie tripped over its own useless leg and crashed into his side, knocking him into the oak bed frame display. Sarah turned quickly and shot it before it could get its grimy and decaying hands around his neck. Porter nodded at her, throwing a slow wink. “Ta, love.”

“You’re welcome.”

John rolled his eyes and shot a howling zombie, dropping it onto its buddy behind it. Later, he’ll examine the multitude of ways that he was losing his girlfriend, but now right now “Can we not do this while we are dying?” .

“Best time to do it, Watson.” Porter snarked at him.

John pulled the trigger on the buddy and used his considerable patience to not. Pull. Rank. “Dick.”

Porter snorted at him, and shoved a scrawny zombie out of his personal space. “Bitch.”

“Boys!” Sarah shouted. “Enough dick wagging! We’re near the doors to the loading dock.”

Porter looked over shoulder at Watson, eyes wide with shock and no small amount of awe. John matched his look and turned it on Sarah. “Just how much did you pick up from those videos, love?”

Sarah’s face lit up with a wide smile. “Enough.”

“Hold still.”

She did, and John aimed over her shoulder and stroked the trigger. A zombie child directly behind her spun around violently, a gaping hole where the back of the skull would have been. Sarah’s head jerked around, saw the body, and ran behind him to get away from it. A few feet away, a scraggly teenaged zombie raised its head and roared in retaliation, and around the store others answered...or seemed to answer... The sounds sent the two soldiers’ warning signals on fire in their minds, making their skin crawl. _‘Wait, what the hell was going on?_ ’ John lingered for a moment and watched the other zombie closely as it shuffled forward and bumped into the child-sized monster sprawled on the floor, making nudging motions with its foot on the small corpse’s mangled head. Porter came shoulder to shoulder with John.

“Is that...?”

“I think so.” John could feel his heart rate jump in sudden fear.

“Are they...?” Out of the corner of his eye, John could see the slight tremble in the soldier’s right hand, the one gripping the pistol grip of the crossbow.

“I think so.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

Porter looked down at him, eyes wide with horror. “That changes things.”

“How so?”

“We’ve got to go faster.”

“Fuck.” John bit out the curse on a bitter wave of fear.

“Yep.”

Sarah waved at them. “Guys, let’s go!”

John and Porter turned as one, and followed her to the swinging doors leading to the stocking area and offices of the Tesco Extra. John’s operational mind, the one part of him that wasn’t continually screaming _PANICDANGERDEATHZOMBIESDIEWHATTHEFUCKAREYOUDOINGYOU **FUCKINGI** DIOT_ at him, instantly took note that the doors were not moving which meant that no one (or nothing) had been through them for at least five minutes. They were clear of blood and whatever the black stuff was ( _he had a theory that the black ooze was what was carrying the virus but there was way too many things trying to kill them to gather some in a petri dish to hell with you, Sherlock_ ) as well, which was even better. They hit the doors and pushed through.

  
  
  


Once there was a moment to breathe, Porter took stock of what they had to work with, ignoring the Klaxons going off in his mind. Boxes and crates surrounded them, some stacked all the way to the bare ceiling, and there wasn’t a straight path to anywhere that he could see. Not like he could see much, but there it was. He stood and listened. Despite the echoing of the moans from outside the doors that weren’t getting any closer, there were no new sounds in here. Potentially worrying, that. He narrowed his eyes as the cogs of his brain worked to pin a military action onto what the creatures out there were doing. Regrouping? Waiting for reinforcements? How the hell would he know? This was only his third or fifth time running into these fucking things, and he was suitably terrified. These things were predators, not of this world, and definitely not on his Christmas list. And now it looked like they were becoming either smarter or faster or even both, and didn’t that just make him want to get the next ticket out? Jesus. Watson was right, he was so fucking right. He wouldn’t have lasted very long out there by himself looking for Alex.

_'And even worse, Alex is dead. She couldn’t have survived this, no possible way. Fuck.'_

He shook his head violently and turned to his new friends. Watson was watching him expectantly, even though the man probably already had an escape route planned in his head. ' _But why not let the grunt do the work?'_   He grinned ruefully, and Watson matched it. Porter went back to what he was doing before having the mental train derailment, and a plan formed as he looked around the cardboard city. It might actually work.

“Follow me.” He darted to the left, ducking between a stack of laundry detergent and boxes of hair colour. John and Sarah were directly behind him. They kept their movements as fast and quiet as they could, and avoided the stock as they moved through the maze.

  
  
  


John knew what Porter was doing; trying to make it as hard for the creatures to find them as possible, using his instincts and training as a commando to their advantage. But those skills were best used against humans, not freaks of scientific research or nefarious use that used its nose to find prey. Sure, a man would have a hard time finding them, but a dog would be able to follow their tracks easily.

So could a zombie. And now that they seemed to be working together as a cohesive unit of sorts...

Before he could bring up that worrying bit of information, they broke out of the boxes and literally ran into the walls of the other side. John slammed his head onto the wood and metal wall, damn near breaking his skull open before he pushed away and into a rolling cart of moulding peaches. The cart tipped over, almost taking him with it. Damn it! All that noise was certain to attract the creatures! He could barely see Porter ran his hands over the walls, searching for an opening. The stock room was dark as a rule, but low light was coming from somewhere along the wall. John looked to his right, and saw the outline of the rolling tracks of the loading bay door, the ones they use for lorries.

“Over here!” He pointed, and jogged to the corrugated metal door, Porter hot on his heels. They skidded to a halt in front of it, and both set to work searching for anything to open it as Sarah reached them with an electronic opener in her hands. John thunked his already sore head against the metal and cursed his luck.

Sarah muttered, “We are screwed. We are trapped and they are coming,” her voice sounding very small and pained.

John turned around as Porter kept searching. “What...oh shit.”

Porter turned then, alert. “Yeah?”

“They...are definitely coming.” John stood and watched as a few creatures staggered in through the doors. Then he realized that he could see the doorway. “And we happen to be in an open spot.”

“One I didn’t see before, apparently. Great.” Porter turned back to his work. John didn’t miss the note of desperation in the man’s voice, either.

Sarah could feel the fear creeping up her spine, turning her blood to ice, and then John’s arm was around her shoulders, his hand gripping tightly to her right one. “We’ll be fine. I promise.”

Behind them, Porter let out a whoop of joy. “Yes! Perfect!” He latched onto the roller chain on the side of the bay door and gave it a good yank.

Nothing.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered and tried again. Still nothing. “Open, you son of a bitch!” The pitch of his voice was close to an indignant roar.

John left Sarah’s side and spotted the lock on the door itself. “It’s locked.” He mentally kicked himself for saying something so obvious. The zombies turned towards them, obviously able to see better in the darkness, and howled their hunger to the ceiling above. Out in the store proper, others joined in the macabre song of food.

“Oh God...” Sarah whispered.

“Damn it all to hell and back!” Porter kicked the door, the shrill rattle ringing through the bay. “Fuck!”

“Calm down!” John barked at him, putting some ‘Captain Watson’ behind the order. “Find another door, there has to be another door. Sarah, go with him. I’ve got your backs. Go.”

Instinctively, the commando snapped a quick ‘yessir’ and moved to the right, using the meager light to search along the wall.

Sarah stood, shaking, next to John. He looked at her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You search the other wall, love. You’ve seen a door before. You know what to look for.”

Sarah blinked, snapping out of whatever headspace she was in, nodded slightly, and moved quickly over to the other side of the bay door. John turned back around to face the oncoming zombies. He checked the magazine in the gun - seven bullets, one in the chamber. Good enough for now. He shoved it back in and took aim, barely taking any time at all putting his target into the iron sights before he stroked the trigger, dropping the first creature as it weaved towards him. _‘Just like target practice, John. Breathe through it and don’t panic. You’ve got this. You can do this. You can keep them safe._ ’ He picked the zombies off one by bloody one, going through the eight bullets in the span of six seconds. He walked forward while reloading, remembering the flat. The hallway. Facing down the creatures breaching the door. He needed to block the loading door somehow, either with the bodies of the dead creatures or...boxes! ' _Why not boxes...heavy boxes, something that the zombies may have a hard time moving...'_

The laundry soap!

He counted the clips left in his pouches by touch. Three. Shit. “Guys, hurry up...” He took a wild chance and ran past the much slower walking corpses, up behind the stack of laundry soap facing the entrance, and shoved with all the power in his shoulders and thighs, hoping it was level enough to not...

A couple boxes from the very top crashed down next to him, and one hit him square in the back with a corner. He shouted and went to one knee in pain, but he kept pushing, and the shift in the weight of the stack caused the rest to fall forward, crashing onto the zombies in the way of the cascade of boxes. Howls and screeches met his ears in a cacophony of skin-crawling noise. He pushed to his feet and nearly slipped back to his knees as the wet detergent from the broken boxes behind him made the concrete floor slick. He grinned tightly and worked his way carefully back to the front of the stock. He could see the absolute mess he’d made, and his grin grew as he watched the creatures slip and fall, breaking brittle bones and ripping more clothing and skin off, baring diseased muscles to the air. The noise continued, even louder than before, but the threat had been removed for now. He almost felt like dusting off his hands, he was that proud of himself. But he had more important things to worry about right now.

He made his way back to his friends ( _yeah, at this point, he’d consider Porter a friend_ ) just as Sarah shouted out.

“I found one!”

He ran down along the wall and found her jerking at the handle. “It’s locked too, though.”

“No problem.” Porter came up behind John, and bent forward to sniff him. “You smell like mountain rain.”

John chortled. “I still smell better than you, princess.”

Porter’s lips twisted, first into annoyance, then into a tired grin. “Good one with the soap back there.”

“Yeah.” John stepped out of the way so that the stronger man could get his hands around the handle. “Wish I’d thought of it earlier.”

“Highly doubt you were trained for this sort of thing, Watson. I know I wasn’t.”

“Well...”

“God damn fuckin’ thing won’t budge. Hold on.” Porter pushed on Sarah’s shoulder to nudge her out of the way, and snorted at John. “Don’t tell me you were.”

“Biological outbreak training. How to deal with psychotic individuals affected by PCP and or rabies itself. Put the two together, you get ‘fighting zombies 101'.”

Porter was staring at the door. “No shit.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that makes sense.”

“Yep. The things you are trained for in the Paras, Porter.” John shrugged. “You should have been one.”

“Not a bloody chance.” He turned slightly to the slide and pulled his leg up nearly to his chest, and launched his boot at the door. The old wood cracked loudly as the deadbolt lock was forced through the jamb and out the other side. The hollow metal door dented beneath the strain and swung open, slamming up against the metal railing of the concrete stairs leading down to the ground. Porter pushed Sarah out of the door, then went out himself. John was right on his heels, reluctant to stay behind with the creatures currently using the floor as an ice skating rink. Well, he hoped they were still back there.

  
  
  


The brilliant oranges of the dying sun lit their way. John blinked away the brightness; after spending time in a dark store and then an even darker store room, his eyes were shot for outside work until they adjusted. Porter and Sarah were having the same problem, judging by the stumbling contest those two were having. He followed them towards the far end of the store, and looked behind him in mild confusion. Why weren’t they going the other way? Did they just not notice? Sometimes, in a blind panic situation people will just follow the direction the stairs put them, without taking the extra energy to turn. Is that what happened here? He shook his head and forgot about it. There must be some reason. They reached the corner with a minimal amount of problems -John fell flat on his face after tripping on a chunk of concrete, and Porter nearly had a rake in his face a la The Three Stooges- , and John motioned his companions to crouch down so he could talk to them.

“So, what’s the plan?” He squinted a bit, then peeked his head around the corner, Browning in hand and ready to fire. “Because this isn’t working, and I’m fresh out of ideas.”

“I don’t know, seems to be working fine to me.” Porter blinked at him. “But honestly? I’ve got nothing short of making a run for it and finding another store.”

“On foot? Seems feasible. But do you seriously want to go back into a store after this?” John grimaced.

“I’d rather go back in there.” The man poked a thumb at the building they just escaped from, his face thoughtful.

“What?” Sarah squawked. “Are you kidding?”

“I want my bleedin’ gun back, love. You don’t separate a man from his gun, no matter how small it is.” He winked at her. “You know.” And jerked his head towards John.

“What do you mean by that, you cocky bastard?” John grinned. Porter shrugged.

“I mean nothing by it, really.” He shot a grin at John. “Do you know a man by the name of Gandalf, by the way?”

“Oh, shut it, or you are going to have a matching bullet wound on your other shoulder.” John grunted and looked behind them. “I’m hoping the soap demolition derby in there will last a while, I want to get the hell out of here.”

“Well, then let’s go!” Porter stood to his full height and started forward. John moved quickly to grab his shoulder.

“Wait, hold on. What do you have planned, Porter?” He turned the taller man around to face him.

The two men stared at each other, blue eyes meeting blue eyes.

“I’ve got a better idea than running for it on foot. I’m getting the Land Rover back.”

“You are nuts.” John shook his head. “We should wait until it’s calmed down a bit...”

Porter shook his head sharply. “From here, the Rover’s closer than making a run for it, and all your equipment is in it. You two wouldn’t really last out here without it.”

John narrowed his eyes. “We would. I know London like the back of my bloody hand, thanks to my friend, and you would be wise to remember that. I would last a hell of a lot longer than you. Now don’t be stupid.”

Porter went to pull his arm away but John held fast. Not tightly, but enough to make his point. “If you would have let me finish, what I meant is that we should wait until it calms down, then go out there together.” John leveled a hard stare at the commando. “You really don’t have a choice here. I’m not going to do this often, but if you try to throw your life away I will.”

“I’ll be quicker on my own.”

“You will be _dead_ if you are on your own, Sergeant!”

Porter froze. _Son of a bitch._

“Listen to me. We will go together.”

“What about Sarah?”

“Sarah will be coming with us.”

“Oh, hell no.”

“Oh, hell yes.” John nodded towards her. “We had an incident with zombies earlier in the week, and while a friend and I were trapped with no ammunition, Sarah organised a team and headed out into the midst of the creatures you’ve seen, and led them to us so they could give us more ammo.”

Porter stared at Sarah, who only shrugged, barely a movement of her shoulders. “It really wasn’t that great...”

“Bullshit, Sarah, you saved our lives, and you were a complete daft idiot and sexy as all hell and my hero, and we are going to do this together, yeah?” He never took his eyes off of the commando, but the coldness of the officer inside them had disappeared when he talked about Sarah. “Do I have to make this an order, Sergeant?”

Porter took a deep breath. Hell yes, this man was an officer. The steel was nearly visible in the air between them, and he had barely raised his voice. Decision made. “No, you don’t, Watson. But I want to hear more about that ‘incident’.”

“Good!” Just like that, John’s face turned jovial once more, leaving Porter sort of swinging in the wind. “Great. Okay. let’s figure this out here.” He nodded, more to himself than either of his companions. “Definitely going for the Rover. Soo - “ All three of them jumped when the door they exited creaked open a bit. “Change that. Going for the Rover now." He lowered his voice in case the things could hear him all the way over there. "We need to get to the front of the store so we can see what we are up against, and we need to do so without being noticed.”

“Movement, sound, smell.” Porter recited to himself, ticking off the words on his fingers. John nodded.

“Exactly that. And at least some of them can think more than the others. Which is a bit not good.”

“And move faster.” Sarah piped up.

The men stared at her.

“I noticed something when John came to rescue me in the food aisles. The things are moving a bit faster, too.”

“Really not good.” Porter nearly dropped the crossbow, leaving it to hang by its sling. “I’m pretty much out of ammo for this thing.”

“Keep it.” John waved at it. “We may find something for it somewhere along the line. Alright. Let’s do this.” He turned to Sarah and held out his hand, curling it slightly. “Love. I need your gun.”

She looked up at him. “Okay.” She handed him the SIG and the extra magazines. He in turn handed Porter his Browning and magazines.

“Here. You are going first, because you actually do not smell like blood.” A twinge in his back made him wince. “I’m pretty much covered in it, really. Again.” He flexed his hand. “I’ve got smaller hands, so the SIG’s for me.”

Porter smiled. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The group moved forward quietly, as fast as they could. Sarah nearly tripped over a hidden slat of wood, but John caught her and whispered urgently into her ear.

“Watch your feet. Don’t worry about walking like us, just watch your feet. No noise.”

“Okay." She whispered back, wincing slightly.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine, just...”

“Okay.” John patted her shoulder and pushed her forward again before she could say ‘embarrassed’.

As they neared the corner of the building, the moans and howls and bloody yowling of what had to be a really large crowd of zombies reached their ears, a noise that would haunt Sarah’s dreams for the rest of her life, however short it would probably be. A few more steps, and Porter raised his hand, fisted tightly, in a ‘halt’ signal. Sarah didn’t see it, seeing as she was watching the ground like John had told her, and only a quick hand kept her from colliding with the much larger man’s back. She turned back to see a soft smile on John’s face which disappeared as Porter ducked his head around the corner and recoiled on the tail of a muttered oath.

“What is it?” She tapped his tight shoulder, and he cracked his neck.

“Must be a bank holiday out there.”

John moved past Sarah and met him at the corner. “Let me - oh, _fuck_ me already, damn it all.”

“I don’t think I want to see,” Sarah muttered darkly, clutching at air. She nearly felt naked without some sort of weapon, at least. She looked around her for something she could use.

“No, you don’t.” John wiped his forehead, clearing away some of the dried blood and sweat that gathered there. “You really, really don’t.” He sighed. “Alright. Right.”

“God, I’m tired.” She collapsed sideways, colliding with the brick wall and sliding down until her rear hit the ground.

Both men jerked their heads away from the tableau in front of them and stared at her. Porter muttered, “Can’t rest yet, love,” as John bent down and grabbed her shoulders tightly and peered into her face, checking her eyes and skin. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just need to rest.” She waved a limp hand in their general direction, then flapped it at the corner. “That is something I don’t want to deal with just yet. I need to sit.” Something behind her scraped the pavement and vibrated against her lower back.

They all froze. The undead were closing in from all sides (John had spotted some up in a copse of trees near the road, and he wasn’t going to be an idiot and assume the loading dock door had moved on its own); the noises were growing louder from the hundreds of creatures in the parking lot, and now a different noise. The soldiers were on war footing, high alert, _threat level critical,_ and their heads were swiveling, trying to find the source of the sound.

“What the hell was that?” Porter’s voice was so tight you could tune it and use in on a violin. “What was that, where did it come from?”

“As in a noise different from the kassen sher nightmare around us?” John stared hard behind them.

The commando barely even blinked at the snapped rebuttal. “Yeah.”

Sarah blinked, though, and her brain finally connected the sound to the vibration at her back. She reached behind her and pulled a length of iron pipe away, the scraping noise as she dragged it against the ground almost exactly the same. Two pairs of sharp blue eyes snapped to her. “This?”

They didn’t even stare for a second before Porter reached down and snatched the pipe out of her hands and John gathered her into the tightest hug she’d ever received, one that pulled her to her feet at the same time that it comforted her.

“Will that work?” She sort of squeaked out, because John was licking at the sweat on her neck and muttering such lovely things in her ear and what the _hell_ is happening? All she did was find a rusty pipe...oh...a weapon. One that the men could use more effectively than she could. “Can I have my gun back now?” John pulled himself away from her enough to hand her SIG back to her, along with the clips, and snatched his Browning back from Porter, pulling the extra clips out of the back of his trousers.

Porter, ignoring John, hefted the pipe in his hand, testing the weight and balance. “Will it work? Sure. Blunt heavy object meets zombie head, BOOM dead.”

John nodded, and peered out into the massive crowd. He could see the Rover, surrounded by hellish nightmare creatures. “Okay. We make the run.”

“Suicidal much there, Watson?”

He shot a glare at Porter. “You wanted to go out there alone, and you are calling me suicidal?”

Porter only shrugged, and John shook his head in exasperation. “Alright. Fine. So.” He points out to the parking lot. “Out there. Stay together, for the love of all that is holy and good in this fucked world, stay the fuck together. We go at the same time.”

He held out his hand and ticked down the numbers with his fingers. When he reached one, they moved forward out of the protection of the building. Sarah and John had their guns out and tracking, finding targets quickly as they jogged to the besieged vehicle. On an unseen signal, the two doctors opened fire at the same time, dropping seven creatures between them before the things could do much more than acknowledge their presence. By the time the zombies even got a couple of brain cells to work together enough to realise they were being attacked, John and Porter were in their midst, swinging and shooting. Sarah followed her boys ( _her boys! Oh, there’s a thought, a very nice thou- **ZOMBIE!**_ ) right into the fray, taking down the things as fast as she could aim and pull the trigger. Not as fast as John, apparently, because he went through one clip already and reloaded on the run. She wasn’t too sure she could do that. Just then, she ran out. The trigger pulled back on an empty chamber, and it locked open. Her brain went into a panicked overdrive as she pulled a new clip out of her pouch. “John!”

John turned and motioned Porter back with him as he pushed the foot or so he was distanced from her, and pistol whipped a creature with designs on her neck. “What?”

“Can’t reload on the run, God, I’m sorry!” She shoved the new clip into the magazine well and fumbled with the empty one, dropping it on the ground. “Shit, I gotta - “

“Nope, go, keep going, can’t stop _GO_!” John pushed her hard, shoving his gun arm over her shoulder and firing directly into the face of a very decayed creature missing half its face. The thing flew back, the powder burn like a starburst on its mangled forehead. The bullet went through and imbedded itself into the eye of an older gentleman, popping the weak orbit like a balloon. The thing barely noticed, and bared a mouth full of black liquid and barely any teeth as it roared at them. John turned and shoved at her again, moving her along with his body. “Keep going!” She did. They were running on stolen time and luck, and luck wasn’t much of a factor considering the mess they were in right now. She couldn’t stop again, and she couldn’t think about where they were at. All she could do was shoot, and hope for the best.

John grunted behind her as he was shoved sideways into Porter, throwing off the taller man’s swing and ending up nearly getting brained. He jerked his head out of the way in time and launched a hard back kick into the zombie’s gut. Save for his foot sinking into the thing’s rotten skin, the kick only served to slow him down a bit, enough to get grabbed. He pulled his arm back and punched hard, knocking the creature back and down. He moved away, tracking with his gun in one hand, and raised his voice over the din. “Keep moving forward!” He waved with his gore splattered hand, the one currently not holding anything. “Get to the doors and get in!” He pushed his way through the weaving and howling mass of reanimated corpses, trying to jockey into a position to protect his friends.

 

 

 

Porter caved another skull in with the lovely pipe, grabbed Sarah, and pushed her in front of him. “Go get ‘em, Watson.” He turned away and moved through the crowd, guarding his charge as well as he could with the melee weapon as he fought through the slower creatures. At least there weren’t any of the smarter ones...He turned around and saw something moving much faster than he wanted it to, and grabbed Sarah by the back of her armour and swung her around to shove her against the SUV. Her startled and pained squeal took on a hysteric note as he slammed against the metal door next to her with a hard grunt and curse. He held the pipe on both ends with the middle jammed into the snapping maw of a different creature. The zombie now hell bent on eating the commando’s face wasn’t as...horrid looking, but the eyes were the main difference - they weren’t cloudy. The whites were blood red with blown blood vessels, and the pupils were pinned. The look of pure rage and insanity was evident on the creature’s face as it bit down hard on the metal, snapping teeth off. Porter turned his head towards her, his own face screwed up into a rictus of shock and stress, along with his own healthy dose of rage.

“Damn it...” he grunted, “...these fuckers...are strong! Sarah, love, get that door open please for the love of God, get it OPEN!”

At that moment, John howled in pain. As Sarah’s brain shifted into ‘oh fuck _ohmy **GOD**_ no’ panic mode, the sound morphed into one that nearly matched the roaring of the things around them. She couldn’t see him, oh shit, she couldn’t see where he was at, where was he, the virus didn’t act that quickly, did it? Her hand tried to latch onto the door handle as she hurriedly scanned the creatures around them, hoping to see...Oh God yes! With an wicked roar of his own, Porter managed to push the ‘new’ zombie off him, and took a hard swing, catching it on the temple as Watson jammed the muzzle of his Browning into a creature's’ mouth and squeezed the trigger. The back of its head disintegrated in a reddish mist, and the thing’s hand released its iron grip on the ex-soldier’s shoulder.

“Sarah! NOW!” Porter screamed at her, straining against the same creature, at the same time John, left arm now dangling uselessly at his side screamed something unintelligible at the things around him as he fired and moved back, unaware that he was on his own. The twin notes of agony and terror in both men’s voices spurned her into action. She twisted at the hip to grab at the door handle again as a gory hand wrapped around her neck - and was torn away by a now free Porter. John was at her side as well, reloading quicker with one hand and his knees than she ever could with both hands, Within seconds, he was firing once more, holding his left arm against his body to protect it like an injured wing. She passed the SIG to Porter, who dropped the bloody pipe. “Go for it!”

He nodded sharply at her, checked the breech, flicked the safety, and squeezed the trigger, sending a nine millimeter bullet straight into the head of a grotesque old man.

 

 

 

 

Now that she was as safe as she could be in the middle of a crowd of ravenous zombies, she could focus on the door that didn’t...want...to... _THERE_! The door finally popped open, and she barely waited until it was open before she was diving in, screaming for the men to follow her. Porter was right on her back, pushing her further in as she scrambled as fast as she could into the middle seats. He in turn toppled face first into the passenger seat when John climbed in after him. The two men ended up in a tangled, bloody mess by the time John managed to get the door shut with his foot. They lay there, panting, for a moment, then Porter lets out a whoop that sounded a bit hysterical and started laughing.

“Jesus fucking _Christmas_ on a golden crutch.” John rubbed his hand through his hair numbly as Sarah scrabbled forward in her seat to check him over for injuries, bites...anything that could have made him scream like that. “Did we just do tha -” Everyone jumped as a zombie threw itself against the back windscreen.

“Can we just focus on getting the fuck out of here?” Porter breathed hard as he pulled his right leg out from underneath John and stared at the things surrounding them. Their hands pawed at the tempered glass, leaving behind smears of blood and...ugh, whatever the hell it was, it wasn’t good. He swallowed hard against the dryness in his throat. Sarah, meanwhile, had pulled the mangled body armour away from John’s shoulder and pressed lightly on the stained fabric of his shirt. The yelp he let out made her yelp herself, and she could feel the hyperventilation begin to set in. Her hands shook as she examined him until he patted at her hands with his good one.

“Sarah. Stop. I’m fine, it just had such a grip that it snapped the ceramic plate and it dug into the scar. I’m alright.” He twisted around in the driver’s seat when she didn’t stop. “Sarah. Are you alright?”

She hiccoughed, tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry. So sorry,” she muttered as she pulled her hands away from John. “It’s just...it’s too much, I’m sorry.” She wanted to cower into the seat cushion as both men now stared at her, their individual worried expressions lurking beneath the blood and sweat and dirt. “I almost lost -” **_hic_** “ - both of you, and I don’t know what to do with that...”

Porter reached back and rubbed her left shoulder, the only one he could reach without getting into John’s way as the doctor leaned over to her and held her hand. “It’s going to be okay, Sarah. I promise. It’s almost over, it’s going to be okay.” The man’s deep voice stayed soft as his words sought to soothe her. “It’s going to be fine.” She nodded, and with one last look at her, they both turned back around, John rolling his shoulder.

“I think it hit a nerve, that’s why it hurts, and I really can’t use my hand.” He pushed his hips forward off the seat and dug around in his pockets for something. After a moment, he snorted softly and rocked his head back onto the headrest. “You have got to be kidding me.” He giggled, actually giggled. A creature slapped its mangled hand against his window, and he flipped it off. “Kiram too ajadet, abam too damaghet, mafangri tooleh sag,” he muttered, and slapped the steering wheel with his limp left hand.

Porter looked helplessly at the man. “Care to explain, exactly, all of that was, mate?”

John rolled his head over to look at him. “I lost the ruddy keys...mate.” His grin was toothy and a bit scary.

The creatures outside pounded on the outside of their safe haven, trying to gain entry with brute force alone.

Now both Porter and Sarah stared at him, and all he could do was shrug. “What? I was fighting for my life in there. At least I didn’t lose my gun like an amateur.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he winced. “I mean -”

Porter laughed. Hard. “Yeah, I get it, _‘sir_ ’.” He smirked. “Move over, you ruddy bastard, and let me show you what I can do.” He and John switched places and the commando inverted himself to get underneath the steering column. He muttered softly to himself as he pulled wires out and paired them together, barely audible above the clamor outside the vehicle. In a couple of minutes, a spark and a curse announced the sound of the engine turning over and catching, roaring to live and spooking the things a few staggering steps back. John whooped in joy, and Sarah felt tears wetting her cheeks again. She wiped them away quietly, dragging dirt across her cheeks. Porter popped up and situated himself in the drivers seat, a grin adorning his beautiful and dirty face. The look, and John’s mirth.drove the exhaustion from her mind.

“Buckle up for safety, kids, it’s going to be a hella ride.”

John snorted. “Tell me we aren’t actually going back into that fucking store.”

Porter’s grin was the kind that John saw on Sherlock’s face a lot, the one he’d come to recognize as the ‘I’ve got an idea. It’s insane. You’re gonna love it!’ grin.

“Oh, no. No. Absolutely _not_.” John shook his finger in the air. “Nope. Not at all.”

“We’ve got the assault rifle, extra ammo for the other guns, and safety by way of this thing, a shield and weapon all in one package. I want my gun back, and I want a pair of jeans. This thing’s got a steel grille guard.”

“Don’t say it.” John warned.

“What could possibly go wrong?” Sarah chirped from her perch. Porter cocked his head and stuck a finger at her.

“Precisely what she said.”

“Hell no.”

“Hell yes.”

John shook his head.

Porter leaned towards, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. “It’ll be like Lashkar Gah all over again.”

John groaned. “You did not hear about that.”

“Oh yeah. _Legendary_. You and your squad. Pure legend.” Porter kept it up. “Come on. You get to  man the SA80, I get the handgun, Sarah gets to finally rest after the awesome things she’s been doing to impress me -” That earned him a smack from both John and Sarah, and he chortled. “Come on. It’ll be fun!”

“That’s exactly what Hammond said before we all damn near ended up blown to bits over a fucking goat.” John smeared his hand over his face, streaking the dirt and grime already there. “Great. Just bloody great.” He sighed.

“Watson.”

“Fine.”

Porter hissed in victory.

Sarah fastened her safety belt.

John groaned in earnest.

As he revved the engine, Porter growled something that made John burst out into hysterical laughter.

“Yippee kai yay, motherfucker.”  


	23. And All the Lovely Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q has a migraine, his worker bees are busy, and Bond discovers a really good bottle of scotch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Hmmm.... migraines. Yes. Q gets them, sometimes. Does he have medication with him? He normally doesn't get them at work, so no. Also, APOCALYPSE. So. *shrugs*
> 
> Thanks to the crew at Antidiogenes, once again.

Bang-thunk BANG!

...grrrrraaaahhhhhhhhh...mrahh...

Crunch- _bang_ -bangbangGRAAAAAHAHHHH! Bang.

Q rubbed his temples, fluttered his fingers over the keyboard in front of him to turn up the bass on the audio system, and tried to go back to the schematics of the self-loading crossbow which  should be working but really wasn’t and he couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t and why the absolute _hell_ was Mark playing with the speaker cords? He needed to get this thing working before Bond decided he was done with this place and came to get him. Impatient bastard, he had so much he could do, and his head was hurting so bad...

Bang- _bang bang._ Thunk. Bang _thunk-thwap-THUNK!_

He slammed his hands down on his desk, making his fifth - _fifth, really?_ \- cup of high test coffee that day wobble and threaten a stack of rather important documents. He yanked off his glasses and got to his feet, leaning both hands on the black plastic as he glared blearily at the blobs and smears through the glass.

“Can you things just...not be complete pricks for all of fifteen minutes while I figure this out, please?”

The one closest to him, well the one that was smashed up against the glass to his left, roared at him. He turned towards him.

“Bob, please, I’m only asking once, and then I’m using you as target practice, understand?”

The one named Bob snarled and dragged the stump of his arm against the barrier, leaving behind bloody residue.

“You are going to be cleaning that, by the way. This is why we can’t have nice things, Bob.”

All he got in return was more growling. He sighed and lowered his head to reduce the tension in his neck. It didn’t really help, but he figured he’d give it a shot anyways. His head throbbed in beat with the dubstep blaring through the speakers. He tried raising his head, and it throbbed harder in retaliation. “Oh, fine. Whatever. You win...not a tension headache. Great... heavy on the hit, motherfucker come get some.” He muttered the last part of the lyrics as he pulled open the top left drawer and plucked the emergency bottle of paracetamol out of the mess of wires and clasps. Behind him, Sergei whistled sharply enough to be heard over the really loud music, and Q winced as the shrill notes cut through the caffeine-and-pain induced fog in his head and hit his headache where it lived. Both hands flew to his head.

“Jesus, could you _not_ do that?”

“Sorry, but I think I got the formulation right this time.”

“Brilliant,” Q groaned and looked up at his minion. “Throw it out there and let’s see what happens.” He waved his hand somewhere in the vicinity of the locked door and peered at his tablet. The electronic blueprint stared back at him and swam around a bit. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds and opened them again. Now everything was too bright and not the right colour and fuzzy, and the music they were using to drown out the noises of the undead outside of their work shop hammered into his brain. _‘Shit. Migraine, damn it, I haven’t had one of these in years...’_ He blinked. “Mary, could we have something different, please. Something softer and not so damaging to my psyche?”

“Sure!” The platinum haired hacker bounced over to her computer and played with the keys. Her bubbly nature couldn’t even be dampened by the apocalypse, and Q just smiled through the pain.

“Thank you ever so much.”

He became even happier - well, as happy as a man could be with the beginnings of what promised to be a nightmare of a migraine digging into his synapses and driving even the most basic thought process running for its life - as his personal playlist started bumping through the overhead speakers, quieter now that Mary also had turned down the volume. The creature’s activity at the glass panels ramped up in intensity as the guitars started playing, and Q leaned over his project - his broken project - to snatch up a pen and scribble some notes onto a sticky pad. Who knows, it could be important some day.

Sergei walked over to the access coded door and pressed in his personal ID number. The click of the triple locks disengaging couldn’t be heard over the song, but Q knew the sound by heart, and could almost taste the sharp tang of fear swimming through his veins at the thought of his inner sanctum being penetrated by the creatures beyond. He pushed it down and focused on his proximity sensor alerts on the small netbook lying off to one side of his work table. Mark stood just behind the Ukrainian, assault rifle in hand and ready to fire as Sergei opened the heavily armoured glass door enough to throw a small rectangular package, timing stick primed and stuck into one side, out into the midst of the zombie horde. The throw was a good one, the brick landing far from the stand alone office. The snaps of the rifle pounded into Q’s head as Mark (mousy, nerdy Mark with the bad haircut and fear of women and pugs and anything made before 2009) fired out into the crowd, taking down the five or so zombies reaching into the open door, the force of the bullets flinging them back into the main area. Sergei fought to pull the door shut again, finally managing to do so just as the bomb blew. The concussive force shook the panels around them and interfered with the locking mechanisms of the door, the alarms bleeping away on Q’s netbook before the locks engaged. After a tense moment, everything went silent once more, save for the music and the undead.

Sergei bared his teeth in a gleeful grin. “That worked.”

Q nodded as much as he could with the incessant fucking train wreck/ automobile crash/ horrorshow aeroplane crash in his head, his shaggy hair (even shaggier, now that he’d forgotten to get his hair cut before this shit went to hell and when was the last time he’d showered, anyway?) falling into his eyes and blocking out the murderous fluorescent lighting, thank God for small miracles. “It did. I think you may have it. Make more, a lot more, and how many timing sticks do you have left?”

“Twenty.” Sergei’s grin grew under the praise of his boss. “Just enough Semtex for them all, if I get the weights right.”

“See to it that you do.”

The man collapsed into a rolling chair and rolled over to his own workstation.

Q rubbed his temples again as he stared at his friends. Mary, as far as he knew, was still working on the interdepartmental phone issue ( _God, it’s been years since they’d had to actually use it, and the whole thing was a mess of copper wires and rat’s nest programming from the Stone Age and what a fucking headache in itself_ ), and Mark was working on the semi-aware artificial intelligence robotics that would help them get topside once Q himself figured out how to keep this part of MI6 blocked off permanently. It wasn’t like he could actually stop the things from coming in from the Underground. Granted, they could just...blow up Q Branch. Heaven knows they have enough semtex...oh. Oh. That could be a plan. It actually should be a plan. He set that thought aside into its own little area, then took a sip of his now cold coffee. _‘Back to my project.’_ He poked at his tablet, closing the screen and setting it down, then pulled the crossbow prototype to him so he could poke at that too. The trigger mechanism was what was giving him grief now, and he was pretty sure he knew where he went wrong, unless it wasn’t the pin itself but the spring which could have been moulded wrong - “Or bent like this one. Bent. Why would it be bent? Ugh. Of course it would be the spring...” He pushed the wire-and-paracetamol drawer shut and opened the one just below it to look for his...shit. Shit, shit shit. “And wonderful, the extra springs that I don’t normally use are in the main workshop.” He looked up, through the glass and past the creatures gathered around them. “Which is conveniently located across the hall. Which, of course, is full of the undead.” He rubbed his aching head. “I hate my job. I really hate my job. Someone tell me they have a phone that works. Please.” He looked beseechingly around the room.

“No, sir, nothing working yet.” Mary had an apologetic look on her face, and Q waved at her.

“Fine, it’s fine, it’s just...I’ve got a headache and I’m out of springs. It’s fine, really.” He peered at the tiny spring in his hand thoughtfully. “Actually, I suppose I could take the time to straighten this out a bit, but close up work is bloody annoying and I really need to get started on the charges for the emergency doors, if we choose to take that route out...” He trailed off as his free hand scrabbled along the desktop, searching for a needle-nose pliers.

Mary nodded at him and shrugged, used to her boss’s knack of just going somewhere else in the middle of a conversation, and went back to work on the phone system. Perhaps if she just hooked it up to the internal system electronically, something like a software patch, or if she could just get beneath the floor and link something up by hardwires...She knelt down and pried open the floor panel in the middle of the room, shining an electric torch down into the space to make sure nothing was going to pop up and take a bite out of her arm. When she felt the coast was clear, she shined it down a bit further, and located the massive bundle of wires. “Hey, how much of this is actually internet cabling and whatnot?” She got no answer. Pulling her head out of the floor, she looked around. Q was pretty much in his own world at the moment, so she waved Sergei over to help her.

  
  
  
  
  


Bond moved smoothly through the throngs of worker bees milling about the top floor. They, in turn, got the hell out of his way, not wanting to bump into a Double O on a mission. That was a good thing, and one side of his mouth turned up into a half-smirk. He didn’t have the time to bother with scaring them even more, though. Mr. Holmes had been very concise in his briefing. The man knew what he was looking for, and what he expected from Bond. He liked that about the tall, posh bastard. Despite his misgivings about working with Holmes, or any bleeding government official who wasn’t M for that matter, he figured this was going to be a nice trade off, and his best bet to get off this ‘island’. He chuckled. Not that it meant that he didn’t go straight to M with this idea of Holmes’s. He did have his loyalties, after all. Even if those loyalties were to two people right now, and only them. He pushed down the icy tendril of fear in his chest when he thought of Moneypen - no, Eve. She’d been out on a retrieval with another Double O. He blinked, and grabbed the phone out of his pocket to stare at the blank screen, trying to burn a hole through it with his pent up frustrations. “God damn it, Q, and God damn you.” Holmes had asked if he was concerned about the young hacker-turned department head. At the time, he hadn’t been, but now? Now he was more than concerned. He was downright terrified, and that feeling didn’t sit well with him.

He neared the elevator bank that, surprisingly, still worked. Why the hell they needed to allocate precious power to the fucking elevators, he’d never know. Lazy idiots. He huffed and turned to the emergency stairs, but not before taking in the handwritten sign taped to the wall next to the brushed steel elevator doors, the letters scrawled in black Sharpie.

 

**NO ONE GOES DOWN TO Q BRANCH. NO ONE. EVER. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.**

**P.S. THIS MEANS YOU, 007. STAY UP HERE. _I AM FINE_.**

**Signed, Q.**

Bond snorted. “You incredible, crazy idiot. Why do we let you near a writing utensil?” He pushed open the door and took them two at a time. No one occupied the stairwell, so he made good time. First order of business: securing a helicopter. He was hoping for a Puma, but would take whatever he could get that could carry more than five people at once. He hit the door and let his momentum carry him out onto the helipad, the big one, the one with the - _oh. ‘Hell.’_

The _empty_ helipad.

He didn’t even feel the steel door closing on his heel and shoulders as he stared out into the coming night.

_‘Son of a bitch.’_

A quick scan around confirmed that it was, indeed, completely vacant. Shit. Not part of the plan. He wasn’t told that the fucking things would be gone...

“Dyer need help, sir?”

Bond’s head swiveled around and stared gloomily at the old mechanic, who’d popped out of nowhere. “Yeah.” He gestured at the concrete expanse. “Could you tell me where everyone went?”

The man - his name tag said ‘Sean’ - scratched his scraggly grey beard and grunted. “Well, let's see. Myest are oot deein some sort of recon or summat .”

Bond blinked at the man’s accent. ' _Oh, this was not going to be fun.'_   He leaned up against the closed door behind him, trying to ignore the unsettling drop in his stomach at the kink in his plan. “A recon, you say?” _‘That could take hours - possibly even until morning. Shit.’_ He looked at the setting sun, now hidden behind the building surrounding them. From this vantage point, the agent and the mechanic could see the glow of the fires and hear the faint noises of their dire enemy moving in the streets below, now a familiar tableau.

“An te think, if yee can hear them aal the way up heor , lad...” The old man spat out. Bond couldn’t help but nod in agreement.

“Well,” Sean slapped his hands together. “It's gunna be a long neet fre someone oot there, tha is fre sortain.” He walked back to his little outbuilding, a workshop of sorts, not much more than a shack built as an afterthought. Sort of as if the higher ups of the organization realised a bit late that helicopters actually needed maintenance. Bond followed him in.

“Yee drink, Agent?”

A small smile played on Bond’s lips. “What do you have?” The more Sean talked, the easier it was to understand the man. He turned in the cramped space and pulled a bottle of Glenfiddich out of a battered file cabinet, and showed it to Bond. He immediately reached for it, staring at the label. He breathed out a slight gasp as he recognized it.

“You have got to be joking. Vintage ‘74?”

“It’s a special bottle.”

“I’d say.” He turned the glass over in his hands, and held it up to the meager lighting over the wooden workbench. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yee leik scotch, lad?” Sean held out a tumblr that he’d pulled out from the same drawer.

“Only the best kinds, and this? This is it.”

Ah figure, may as well drink it up, before it turns back into bog water. It wez me anniversary gift frem me wifie . Wi were married in 1974, yee knaa .”

Bond flashed an easy smile at the old man. “Thank you for sharing it.” He took the glass and opened the bottle, breathing in the scent. “Jesus.” He poured a couple fingers into Sean’s glass, then the same in his and raised the tumblr. “To those we’ve lost.”

They clinked glasses and drank.

“Oh...this can’t be legal, Sean.” Bond licked his lips and barely stopped himself from groaning in delight. That would just make him look like a horse’s arse. “Not something I would have expected on the roof of MI6.”

Sean smiled. “God hides miracles in strange places.”

Bond pushed off the doorjamb and looked out the thick dirty glass of the tiny windows to London - his dear city, fallen - and muttered, “I don’t think God is having much to do with us right now.

“Ah wouldn't be tee sure aboot tha , laddy.”

The agent sighed deeply, and took another sip of the scotch. “Speaking of miracles, do you think you could make one happen?”

That earned him a glare from the old man. “What’re yee thinkin’, boyo?”

“I’m thinking I need a helicopter by sunlight, if not sooner.”

“Do yee, now?”

Bond swirled the golden brown alcohol in his tumbler, releasing some of the brilliant high notes. “And it need to be able to transport things. People.”

“Are yee gannin on a rescue mission?”

“Possibly.”

Sean grinned and grabbed a log book. “Got a Puma coming back in four ooaas , will tha worrk fre yee ?”

“Oh, yes.” Inside, Bond did a small victory dance. “That will do nicely.” He swallowed the rest of the scotch and set the tumbler on the cluttered worktop. “It’s likely I’ll be back in three, with people in tow. Can you get it sooner?”

The old man flicked a page in the log. “Ah could. Syah , a mechanical error tha Ah just discovered or overlooked? Need te come back te base fre immediate repairs?”

“That sounds perfect, Sean.” Bond patted the man on the shoulder. “That will be just perfect.”

They stood and talked a bit more, mostly about Sean’s wife and such, small talk really, until Bond finally broke off and re-entered the stairwell. His good feeling was back, and he whistled a bit as he made his way down. Everything was going to turn out fine, and he was going to get them out and as far away from this hellhole as he possibly could. Now to figure out how to get down to Q Branch without getting accosted by guards...

Rrrrring!

He jerked to a stop halfway between flights.

Rrrrring!

On the third floor landing, the emergency phone trilled. Bond stared at it.

Rrrrring!

“What the hell?” He jogged down to the phone and picked the receiver up, cautiously lifting it to his ear. “Hello?”

The connection was horrid, hissing and spitting and noise all over the place, but - “Hi!”

Bond took a look over his shoulder, ensuring no one was anywhere near. The stairwell remained empty. His brows furrowed. “Who is this?”

“Um, Mary. Mary... from TTS?” Snap. “Where is this phone?”

He shook his head. “How the hell am I supposed to know where you are?”

“No, no! The one you just picked up. Where are you?” She didn’t sound upset, just...happy. Happy is not something he’s used to, not now.

“Oh.” He berated himself for being a bit blonde for a moment, and looked around. A sign above the terminal caught his eye. “C...3-1. Terminal Cee three dash one. Got that?” In the background, past the white noise and hissing over the line, he could almost make out other noises, music or something like that. Yeah, music. Sounded like...was it The Offspring? _‘Oh wow. Okay. Another waste of electricity, but to each their own,’_ he figured.

“Perfect. Thanks.” Snap.

Sensing she was about to hang up, Bond leaned forward unconsciously. “Wait. Where are you at, Mary? Do you need help?” Maybe the happiness was masking something.

“Q Branch.”

“Okay.” His brain took a full half second longer than normal to process that. “Okay, good.”

“Yep! Bye!”

Bond’s eyes snapped wide. “Shit! Wait, hold on, wait, don’t hang up!”

Silence.

“Damn it.” He had the sudden urge to slam the phone up against the brick wall, and he almost did, too, except -  

“Hello. Are you - “

“Yes! Yes I’m still here, and you are too, which is great because I’m not sure this thing dials out. Okay.” He took a breath. “You said you are in Q Branch? Right now?”

Snap. “Yep!”

“I need to speak with your boss.”

Silence met him on the other end, save for the hissing and sparking of what he now knew was because the phone had to be jerry-rigged onto something. He gripped the handset until his knuckles turned white. He just hoped he hadn’t just been hung up on, because he _will_ destroy this terminal, he had a gun, and just enough anger to tear this fucking thing out of the wall in retaliation...

“Um,” - snap - “he’s busy.”

“Doing what?” He reined in his snappishness and breathed deeply, calming his nerves which were on FIRE, thank you very much.

“Things.”

“Stuff and things?” He couldn’t help but shake his head in bemusement. _‘Damn that kid and his inability to talk to humans when he’s busy with something.’_

“...sorry, yes. Things.”

“Okay, so tell him it’s me. Bond.”

“Bond?”

“Yes, 007, Agent Bond?”

“Ooooh, that Bond. Hold on.”

He stared at the phone for a moment. _‘That’_ Bond? How many Bonds were there? The silence was frustrating. The door to the landing creaked open as someone poked his head around. Bond shot him a stern ‘do not disturb me or the janitor will be scraping you off the walls’ look, and the man disappeared again. Over the phone, he could hear the faint sounds of...zombies over the music - Supertramp, now, and something he now recognized as Q’s music list. Shit. He could feel his blood pressure skyrocketing again, like it did every time Q would call him near the walls of his office. The time where the kid had introduced Bond to ‘Bob’ was possibly the worst, because the idiot had opened his fucking door and then ‘Bob’ had grabbed onto his arm. As Bond had yelled over the mobile, Q had calmly taken a large knife and sawed off the creature’s hand. ‘Not a big deal, James. Calm down before you give yourself a stroke,’ Q had told him.

_‘Not a fucking chance.’_

“Okay he says that he’s sorry that he can’t come to the phone, but he’s...dangling.” Snap.

That gave him pause. _‘He’s doing what?’_  “Dangling.”

“Yep!” Snap.

Bond squeezed his eyes shut. “Can you stop with the ‘yep’ thing? Please? And the gum snapping?”

“Sorry.”

“Fine, it’s fine. Okay. Dangling. Explain.”

“What do you mean...”

“How. _How_ is he dangling, and _why_ is he dangling?”

Snap. “The rafters.”

 _‘Deep, calming breaths, James, don’t lose your temper with the poor girl.’_ “Is that how? Or why?”

“Both, apparently.” That voice was different from the bubbly girl, that was a voice he knew very well, and that voice was out of breath and high pitched with exhaustion. “Hello, 007.”

 _‘Double damn that kid for being so hands on with his projects.’_  “Q, what the hell are you doing hanging from the rafters?”

Q sighed over the line. “Testing the climbing equipment and a hypothesis.”

Bond closed his eyes. “You are going to kill me one of these days. Okay, I’ll bite. How’d it go?” There is no point in berating the young man, because it will only turn into shame because Q could engineer himself out of the middle of an atomic bomb with a screwdriver and a wet napkin, and shove the inevitable ‘I know what I’m doing, Bond’ in his face while he’s proving it. Damn it.

“Didn’t get very far, but so far it’s a viable escape route.” A pause. “In theory.”

Bond sighed into the receiver loudly, trying to convey his displeasure, his worry, his...everything, anything, to this daft lunatic hacker. “Don’t break your neck, you nutter.”

“What makes you think I would be that stupid, Bond?”

“Three months ago, to be exact.” He didn’t even have to think about that one.

There was a lengthy pause. “Okay, that wasn’t entirely my fault.”

“The junior agents still talk about it.”

“I only broke a couple of ribs.”

“And your collar bone.”

“I was able to experiment on different types of slings we could give Medical for you Double O’s out in the field, something we could engineer to hold up to your particular brand of destructiveness.”

“And you blew out the glass walls of your office.”

“It needed some redecoration, anyway. And I was able to add the extra protection I knew I would need one day, thank you very much.”

“Q - “

“Bond, I know what I am doing.”

 _‘And there it was.’_ Bond nodded once, even though Q couldn’t see him. “Of course you do, love.”

Another, much longer pause.

“I think I may have enough climbing harnesses for three people, which leaves us with a rather difficult problem.” Q’s tone of voice had dropped considerably, and the background noise had disappeared, which meant he’d thrown his jacket up over his head. No one else could hear this part, which told Bond this wasn’t something he’d discussed with the others.

“The problem being that there are four of you down there.” Bond nodded again, much tighter. He knew what his scrawny hacker was going to say.

 

“I was going to stay behind.”

 

“Alright. Other than being completely suicidal and cracked, when were you going to move your personnel?”

“Sometime tonight. Actually, within the next couple of hours.”

“How were you going to get out?”

“Not sure yet. I’ll keep an eye on you, and call you with details. How does that sound?”

“Keep an eye on...me?” Bond shook his head. “Okay, fine. Sure. Do that, and keep me updated. How’d you get this phone to work?”

“I think all of the hardline phones work now, thanks to Mary.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know exactly what she did, but I’m not going to bore you with details.”

“How are you holding up down there?” Bond couldn’t help asking. “And you wouldn’t bore me, love, and you know it.”

“Yes, I would, because it’s all wires.” Q sighed, a happier sound, but still strained. “You just want me to talk to you.”

“I like the sound of your voice. Now answer my question.”

“I have a migraine. I’m out of ramen, still, and there’s a spring I need for the treat I was making you. It was bent, and I’d rather have a new one, but it’s okay because I fixed the bent one.”

“Okay.” Sometimes it was hard to follow the internal/external monologue of Q, something Bond figured most people like him had issues with. Something about rants and stream of consciousness thought patterns, and to hell with psychiatrists in general. He shook his head. “A migraine. Have you taken something for it?”

“We are almost out of coffee.”

Which has...everything to do with his migraine. “Caffeine. Do you have sodas down there?”

“No. We’ve got tea, but no electric kettle, and the coffee pot needs to be cleaned.”

“I’m not sure what to do about that short of sending a fresh coffee pot down the elevator, and you’d still have to fight through corpses to get to it.”

“Could actually be worth it, James.”

Bond shook his head. “Let’s get you topside soon, alright?”

“Yes, let’s.” Q breathed in, and whispered, “I love you, James.”

“Love you too, Hacker.”

  
  
 **  
**


	24. The Prices We Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In where Bond is wandering the halls, Mycroft is betrayed, and Q gets bitchy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING: DUB CON het sex** If it isn't your thing, skip to the end, the end is important. 
> 
> Also, a bad marriage joke. Forgive me, I'm married.

Mallory rounded the desk and handed the steaming cup tea to Mycroft. “So, you see the problem now. How are we going to save the people left in London with these hounds breathing down my neck? There has to be pockets of survivors, and I don’t want to abandon them any more than they already have.”

“There are survivors out there, I’m sure of it.” The elder Holmes dipped his head at the current head of MI6, lifted the cup to his lips and sipped, savouring the flavours. “I know there is because before the last satellites stopped transmitting for whatever reason, I was in contact with two of them.”

Mallory looked at him as he leaned on the corner of his desk. “Really? Who?”

“One of them -” Mycroft locked eyes with him. “One of them is my brother. The other is his friend.”

Gareth watched his face as he sat heavily in his chair. “Your brother. Sherlock, right? Sherlock Holmes, the so called ‘consulting detective’ who essentially broke into Dartmoor.”

Mycroft hid his wince expertly. “The same.”

“The one that we nearly activated a Double O for, because of that. Oh, and his friend wouldn’t happen to be - “

“Doctor John Watson - “

“ _Captain_ John Watson.”

“Yes. Captain. Late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

Gareth’s lips pressed together in consternation. “Yes, about that. You do realise that regiment no longer exists.”

That stopped Holmes dead in the middle of an exasperated nod. “Oh?”

“Yes. Hasn’t now for a while.”

Mycroft cocked his head. “So how did he...”

Mallory waved it off. “Not important anymore, nevermind. It was just a curiosity.”

 _‘Actually, it’s very important.’_ Mycroft held his tongue, though, as the man in front of him continued.

“What is important is saving what is left of London. What are your thoughts?” Gareth folded his hands politely on the desk. “Be as stark as possible, please. Tell me, do we have a chance?”

Mycroft sighed. “I have never...well, we weren’t really trained for this sort of thing, were we, Gareth?” The man shook his head sadly. ”I did make up a dissertation and an emergency plan for the possibility of a zombie apocalypse, but not only did people nearly laugh me out of the conference room, the material I’d created was most likely destroyed.” He shrugged ever so lightly. “Not to mention that barely any of my recommendations were followed in this instance, which makes everything else I had worked up completely useless. Our best possible chance is to do it ourselves while someone holds back the masses willing to just write off the people and turn this entire island into a wasteland.” He sighed. “I don’t have any hard evidence, since the phones went down, but I believe they are going to be on their way out of London proper soon.”

“Your brother and his friend?”

“Yes, and their group.”

“How many?”

“Possibly seven, maybe more.”

“How soon?”

Mycroft felt his stomach sink with a sudden realisation: Gareth was asking too many questions. Damn it. “Morning.”

“So we need to hold the ravenous beasts of the council off until at least a week so they can move.” He dropped his head onto his folded hands. “I may just blow up this building.”

Mycroft nodded in sympathy, trying to figure out how to play this situation correctly. “I don’t normally say this, but I will help you. I have an...investment in this, and I would like to see them succeed.”

“Good.” Gareth’s eyes took on a steely note. “Because my agent told me of your plan, Holmes.”

On the outside, Mycroft’s only reaction was a slight tightening of both the corners of his eyes and his mouth. On the inside, he was freaking out, berating both that double crossing son of a bitch Bond and his own stupidity at trusting someone like him, a spy, _‘damn it I should know better because I was one damn it damn it-'_ “Oh?” He managed to talk around the ice shard shoved into his heart. “I should have expected it, really.”

“Yes. And he’s working on procuring a helicopter for you and your assistant, as well and himself and our Quartermaster.”

“Yes, well.” No point in lying now. “I’m hoping to be gone by sunrise.” The tightening of the skin around Mallory’s eyes and mouth did not go unnoticed. Holmes swallowed. “I was, rather.” He took a breath, a slight one. He needed to salvage this. “But it seems I am needed here. You see, I had this plan since step one. I just needed a pilot.” He looked at M. “Your agent, as you put it, can pilot a helicopter. It was a simple choice, Gareth.” Mycroft cocked his head slightly as he fidgeted with the handle of his teacup. “But it seems this may be a bit more important.”

“And safer by far.” Mallory leaned forward, hands flattened on the top of the ink blotter. The spark in his tired blue eyes was set alight once more. “I need you, Mycroft. I can’t do this by myself, and if you go with Bond, you are most likely going to die, and they will win and we lose everything. London, your brother, even you. No one can outrun a bombing.” The earnestness in his voice seemed real - _‘no, it is real’_ \- and it moved Mycroft to the core. “I’m letting him go. I’m letting Bond leave because he can’t  stay idle here while the world he’s put so much of his blood, brain, and strength into crumbles around him. He just can’t. It’s like holding a live grenade in your hand and not knowing how long the timer is set for.” He sagged back into his seat. “What do I have to do to convince you that we can do this together? We can save them, Holmes, I promise we will.”

Mycroft, for his part, relaxed into his own seat. His plan was still in motion for the time being, and he couldn’t be more grateful to the man for it. “You don’t have to convince me any more, Gareth. I’m with you. I agree that I would most likely be in the way, but I do have one stipulation.”

Mallory spread his hands in front of him. “Anything you need, my friend. Anything.”

“Anthea goes with Bond.”

“I’m not sure that will go over well.”

“Anthea goes. That is final, or I’m on that helicopter.”

Mallory blinked, pressed his lips together - a tell, it seems. Mycroft filed that away for future reference - and finally nodded. “Fine. Yes. She will go with him, but I’m not going to be the one to tell him.” He sighed. “You will have to.”

“No, I think Anthea can handle herself, in this respect.” He leaned back and looked to his assistant. “Anthea?”

“Sir, I would like to remind you that my name this week should be Magdalene.” She said this with a smile.

Mycroft only blinked at her. “Well, then, Mag -”

“It’s fine, sir.”

It occurred to him then that she was joking. Anthea. A joke. “Ah. Well then. Anthea. Could you find Mr. Bond and let him know of the developments?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll be back soon.” She stood up, still clutching her mobile, and left the room with only a terse nod to the men.

“Well. That’s settled, then.” Mallory turned back to Mycroft. “May I mention that your assistants scare the hell out of me, Holmes?”

“That is odd, because I feel the same way of yours.” Mycroft rolled his eyes, and they both knew who he was referring to. The man walked in, right on cue.

“What can we do for you, Tanner?”

“Ms. Moneypenny has returned. I believe someone should talk to 007 about it.”

Mallory nodded, and the sheer relief on his face was obvious. “Brilliant. Mr. Holmes’s assistant is looking for him right now. Catch her and let her know. She will pass on the message.”

“Yes, sir.” Tanner nodded his head and backed out of the office. When the door clicked shut again, Gareth dropped his head heavily onto the desk.

“Jesus, thank you. Thank. You.” He shuddered out a little laugh. “I thought for sure that we would lose her.”

“A field agent?”

“A good one.”

“Then you had nothing to fear.”

“I suppose.” Gareth raised his head again, and locked Mycroft with a stare that couldn’t be read. “Your brother. Is he...does he have skills?”

“He is brilliant. A genius.” Mycroft allowed a small smile to reach his eyes. “He will make it.”

“Alright.” Gareth blinked back a tear, a concession to his stripped state, and opened his briefcase. “Let’s get started. Is there a way you could recreate the plans?”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to press his lips together. “I’m a Holmes, Mallory. We all have photographic memories. Of course I can.”

“Then let’s get to it.”

********   
  
  
  
  


Bond moved through the halls like a shark, lost in his thoughts. Really, actually lost. He could barely focus. The plan was simple, so simple. Get a helicopter, get weapons, get Mr. Holmes and his pretty assistant, get Q, and get the hell out of Dodge. So far, he’s managed to find an exploding biro, a cup of lobby coffee, his briefcase, and one clean suit. He grimaced, and shoved it at a passing junior agent. “Might not want a suit for this.” Even as he muttered that, he winced. All of his regular clothes were down in the locker rooms outside of the gym, and that was infested with these...things. Things. Zombies. Creatures.

Predators.

He sighed, and twiddled the pen in his hand.

“Bond.”

He twisted around and stared at Anthea. Well, not-Anthea. Whatever her real name was, because he just knew that she was familiar, and he was right. Now that she was out in the open, he could see the resemblance to a woman he’d ran into the one time he was allowed into the Home Office, and the lady’s name had been Helena, and - “I’ll be damned. I know you. I think.”

“Perhaps.” She poked at her phone. “Have you located one yet?”

“One what - oh. Helicopter.” He squared his shoulders, and turned back around. “Yeah. But it’s on its way, it’s not here yet. It’ll be available in a couple of hours.” He fiddled with the pen a bit more and began walking again, Anthea/ Helena/ whatever falling into step with him easily. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“What about?” Her flats barely made any noise whatsoever on the linoleum, which made him a bit nervous.

“How many people are we looking at, in total, to be coming on this trip? And where are we taking them?”

Anthea shook her head. “At least seven, and originally we were to find them at the Holmes manor, but Mycroft isn’t sure that they would get out of London in time, or even make it that far on foot, so he would like us to locate them on a main road and pick them up there, then take them to the manor by helicopter, or somewhere a bit more secure.”

“Are they armed?”

People moved out of their way as they passed by. She glanced up at him. “As much as we could make them. I hope they aren’t running out of ammunition out there. I am rather fond of the blonde one.”

“The...blonde one?”

“Oh, um...Watson. Doctor Watson.”

Bond paused. “What part of that name seems familiar?”

“I’m not certain, Bond. But. You said you needed to talk to me.”

He shook his head. “Yes. Okay.” He leaned to the right, pushed open a door, and pulled her into an empty office. He kept his tight grip on her arm as he shut the door behind him. “Listen. Mr. Holmes is not coming with us.”

“No, he is not.”

“That’s righ - Oh.” Well. He definitely expected more fighting on that front. “Yes. No. He’s not...” Bond shook his head, caught a bit wrong-footed. “He’s had an illustrious, if classified, career as a field agent. I’ve seen the files, the blacked out and redacted files. It makes for good nighttime reading. But he’s done, finished. He’ll only get in my way, and I work better alone.”

“Yes.” ' _She’s nodding, why is she agreeing with me, this is her boss we are talking about!'_

“He can’t keep up with us.”

“Exactly. Not to mention that he is needed here, to keep the council off our backs, and possibly cover the escape.”

“Why are you agreeing with me?”

“Because I didn’t want him to come along, either.”

“Oh.” He peered at her, trying to read her poker face. “Good. That’s...good. Alright.” He nodded.

“He’s sending me instead.”

“What?” Bond jerked from his planning. “No. Oh, no. No.”

“Yes.”

“No, that is not happening.” He chuckled. “There is no way that is happening.”

Her lips pulled up into a wicked smile. “Yes, I am coming with you.”

He shook his head, still chuckling deep in his chest. “No, I am not going to be dragging a PA round with me, no matter how pretty she is, that’s almost worse than having an government lackey breathing down my neck and whining constantly - “

He didn’t have much of a warning but he still managed to block the right cross that the woman threw at his face, and the following left ( _who in their right mind wouldn’t lead with the left if they were a righty - oop!_ ) and barely dodged the knee to his stomach. He grabbed her thin wrists and twisted his hips to avoid a debilitating blow to his groin as he pushed his weight forward, forcing her back against the heavy oak door. He lowered his head, nudged her hair out of the way, and breathed into her ear, grinning widely as adrenaline pumped through him.

“Is that all you’ve got, doll?”

He didn’t expect the explosion of pain of her knee in his right kidney. “Jesus - “ He held tight to those wrists, but had to back away to keep her from headbutting him, which only served to give her room to wedge her left leg, bent in half, between their bodies so she could shove him backwards into the desk, the small of his back hitting hard. She was on him in an bare second, her small hands gripping his Walther ( _wow, she’s a fast little thing_ ) tight and pointing right at his head.

He laughed. “There’s a biometric reader in the grip. May as well drop it.” He could see the red LED lit up on her face, and the way it lit up her smirk as she flipped the gun around in her hand to grip it by the muzzle. He had only a second to register the change before he was ducking the avoid the pistol whipping he was about to -

He was met with that left fist hooking around to connect with his jaw. Stars exploded in his vision as his head snapped back beneath the blow, and she hooked her leg around his and shoved with both hands, one still wrapped around the gun, toppling him to the floor. His head bounced hard off the tightly piled carpet, and barely registered the extra weight on his hips. Anthea pinned him down with her hips and he felt her surprisingly strong hands wrapped around his wrists now, and she bore down, pushing him further into the carpeting. All of his warning signals fired off at once, slamming him with more adrenaline as he twisted and fought against her restraints, and he panted hard with exertion.

Anthea blinked her pretty eyes, bent down, and licked his lips, then her mouth covered his in a heated demand, all hard edges and bites and _Jesus Christ yes_. Bond pushed up into the kiss, his system overloaded with the crossed signals. She rocked her hips down into his already aching erection, adding a new depth to this fucking power play, and he reacted blindly, arching up into the sensations. She pulled away from his eager mouth and dropped her head to his shoulder and whispered into his ear, much like he’d done to her.

“How’s this?”

All he could do was pant raggedly into her chestnut hair. “Damn you.”

She rocked her hips down again, dipping her back so that her pelvic bone raked against his fucking prick ' _oh my GOD she’s going to fucking kill me.'_   He couldn’t help the groan of need that pushed its way out of his chest.

“Are you...involved with someone, Double O Seven?” Her hands tightened around his wrists, making him buck up into her.

“Fuck! Yes.” He panted at her. “I am.” He jerked beneath her, and rolled, slamming her to the carpet. “And I am not fucking you into submission.”

She stared up at him, her hands still around his wrists, but his hands dug themselves into her shoulders. His legs fit perfectly between hers, his shins resting on hers, and his hips rested on her pelvis. He had her effectively pinned. That smirk was back in full force.

“Why not?”

“Because he will blow me up with my next weapon.” He grunted as she pulled at his hands. “Or my radio.”

“Ah.” She kept her hazel eyes on his icy blue ones. “You look stunning like this, you know?”

His brain still screamed at him, blared Klaxons at him, banged gongs and _screeched_ at him, but he chose to ignore all of this as he stared down at his quarry. Mr. Holmes’s personal assistant beneath him, flushed and panting, her hazel eyes gleaming up at him, wanton and dangerous, a viper hidden in the grass. And she had one hell of a left hook.

He snorted. “Personal assistant my arse.”

She smiled up at him, wicked and devilish. “I’m an accomplished interior decorator, as well.”

His chest heaved, and he blinked down at her. “I’m sure you are.” He lowered his head and kissed her soundly. Her quick little tongue flicked out to push at his lips again, and he opened his mouth to let her in. This kiss was different, something tamer, calmer, a leisurely jaunt through the park compared to the war zone they were previously in. His fingers gentled and kneaded her shoulders, and her hands left his wrists to explore his heavily muscled back. His brain was still yelling at him, but his body had other plans, his hips rocking against her, pressing his cock against her clothed cunt and _can we just get rid of the clothes already?_ He moved his right hand down to her buttons and flicked them open, and she moaned into his mouth. The sound was enough to wipe the rest of the warnings out of his mind, and he could focus on one thing, now: this jaguar of a woman.

She pulled one leg to brace her foot against the carpet so she could push up into him, and bit at his throat. “Do it, Bond. Fuck me.” Her hand snaked around to pull at his belt, yanking the leather out of the loops. “You want to.”

His head dropped down to her shoulder as she licked and bit at his neck, something he couldn’t resist, especially when Q was - oh, shit. _Shit._

“Wait.”

“Nope. I want you, Bond.” She ran her tongue up the shell of his ear, and nipped at the cartilage. “And I’m going to have you.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, and groaned at the notes of her possessive desire in that devilish voice. “Oh, God, I’m a dead man.”

“You sleep with women on your missions. He knows this.”

“But I don’t...not here. Not...” Fingernails dragged down his bare chest; she had his shirt open, when did that happen, oh, this was happening. It was happening now. He growled at her, and bit down on her neck, right where the shoulder met the base, and she bucked, moaning in that sweet voice of hers. “Fine.” He pushed at her trousers. “Get these off. Now.”

She grinned in victory, and he mentally smacked himself. _‘Bloody typical of you, James. Stressful situations? Just fuck someone. Fucking typical. She fucking played you._ ’ But he didn’t care anymore. He just didn’t...wow, no pants. _‘She’s not wearing...oh Jesus’_. He couldn’t get his trousers shucked fast enough, and his pants were pushed down just as quickly. She didn’t take much time pulling one leg out of her trousers, and she pushed three fingers into herself and moaned, and he couldn’t help but lean down, trousers around his knees, and lap at her, fingers and all. She tasted amazing, and he wanted more, damn it, but he couldn’t. Shit, he couldn’t, shouldn’t do this, Q is going to kill him, and Anthea - Not Anthea pulled him to her by the back of his neck and kissed him hard, that bite back as if the woman knew he was having second thoughts about this. Her other hand, wet and shining, went to his cock and pulled once, twice - and she fell back, leading him to his doom with one hand on his neck and one on his prick. _Fuck_. He couldn’t stop now, or he’d explode from all the fucking _tension_! He couldn’t do this. She lined him up on target, and with a last bite at his lips, she grabbed his hips and pulled him down.

“OOOoooooh fuck...” Bond groaned in decadent pleasure as he sunk into the heat of her. “Fuckin’ beautiful, you are gorgeous, God, fuck, shit...”

She hummed up at him and rolled them both, locking her legs around him and following him over, pushing the heels of her hands into his pectorals and dropping her weight down hard. Bond’s head dropped back and bounced off the carpet, and he growled at her. The smirk on her face pissed him off, and he dug his fingers hard into her hips, hoping for bruises. “If I’m going to get killed by my lover, I may as well make it fuckin’ worth it.”

“You’d better, Double O Seven.” She rocked rhythmically now, sliding up and down on his cock, rolling her hips every couple of strokes. “Make me come.”

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck.” He tightened his grip and held her pinioned on him for a moment. “You. Do not do this.” He shook his head, beads of sweat rolling off his brow. “You do not get to drive me crazy.” He kept his grip on her hips and pushed up into her, hissing deeply. “That is Q’s job.” He kept up the pace, pushing hard and fast, as deep as he could, holding her hips still above him. “You bitch.” He knew he was going to leave bruises, which was fine, she deserved this...and then his brain caught on one very important fact.

There was a gun at his temple. His hips froze mid-thrust.

“No, Mr. Bond, keep going.” She pressed the muzzle a bit further into his skin. “Keep in mind, before you think to disobey - I have a gun, too.”

His heart hammered in his chest, the cold metal of the muzzle a shock against his temple, even as his prick twitched in her - _God, she’s dripping, this is how much she’s turned on, fuck_ \- and his brain just shut down. It shut completely down. He couldn’t fucking deal with this... He started moving again, snarling his anger with her out on a breath that felt like a kick in the chest. He reached up with one shaking hand and pulled her down by the front of her lovely purple shirt and bit her neck hard, hard enough to make her cry out with pain. The cry turned into a moan as he licked the spot, and drove into her brutally.

“Again.”

He stared at her, and blinked as a drop of her sweat fell onto his eyelid. He ducked his head and bit her again, this time on the collarbone. He sucked a dark purple mark onto the bone, and she keened above him and shook. It took a moment for his extremely confused brain to process her orgasm, but by the time he gentled his strokes she was climbing off of him. He blinked hard and laid there, on his back, his cock lying along his stomach, still throbbing and hard and leaking a bit. She was pulling up her trousers after wiping herself off, and she looked down at him.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Bond. I’m not risking pregnancy, and you aren’t wearing a condom.” She buttoned up and pulled her hair back into a serviceable ponytail. “Simple, really.”

He stared at her. “You are fucking kidding me.”

“No. And you will do well to remember this.” She knelt down, reached beside his head, and plucked up his gun, placing it on his heaving chest. He twitched at the proximity, and fought the urge to pull her down against him. “I’m very good at dealing with men like you.”

His head thunked back against the carpet, and he laughed, low and bitter. “Fuck. Fine. You want to come with?”

“I was given an order, Double O Seven, and I intend to carry through with it.” She smirked down at him. “As they say.”

“Fine.”

The smile on her face was now calm and...professional. Very professional. _‘Shit. She could be a Double O,’_ Bond thought. _‘Easily.’_

“Okay, you’re in. But you may want to actually find a gun before you come talk to me again, Anthea.” Bond scowled at her as his brain finally came back online. “Because you don’t actually  have one.”

“That is true. Could you find me one?”

“Ha. Find one yourself.”

“Very well.” She nodded her head, backing down from him now, even though she was clearly in the position to stress her point. ' _Jesus Christ. She is dangerous.' Very, very dangerous._ Bond swallowed, not making a move to cover himself. “I’ll meet you on the helipad, then?”

“Two hours.”

“Yes.” She turned and walked to the door. “Oh, and Bond?”

He sat up, rubbing at his sore back, and wondering just how quickly he could get down to Q Branch and fuck Q’s brains out before they had to leave. “Yeah?”

She looked back over her shoulder at him, hand on the door handle. “Miss Moneypenny is back. She is alright, save for a broken arm, and she says to tell you that Alec is on his way back.”

Bond stared at her.

“I figured you’d like to know. Mr. Tanner told me.” With that, she walked out of the room, leaving him half naked and hard as a rock, his head spinning and his guts roiling.

After a moment, he growled. “I fucking HATE that bitch.”

_Rrrrring!_

“Oh my fucking God, no. NO.” He glared at the phone on the desk.

_Rrrrring!_

“Oh hell, I am so dead that M is going to have to write a obituary two years ago.” He winced as he reached up and batted the handset down onto his lap, and picked it up. “I’m a dead man, aren’t I?”

“Do you care to tell me what, exactly, the fuck you were doing?” Q’s voice was saccharine-sweet, and Bond knew he was in serious trouble.

“Does it count that she was holding a gun to my head?” Bond scratched the spot the muzzle had rested, and looked around the room for the camera.

“I’m debating.”

“Not what it looked like.” He cast around and found his exploding pen, twiddling it in his fingers. “Trust me.”

“Oh. Really? Because from my vantage point, you were getting fucked rather thoroughly after getting your arse kicked rather thoroughly.”

“Not thorough enough, I assure you.” Bond palmed himself and groaned. He was sticky, and still hard, though not as hard as he was. “Want to talk me through this defusing, Q?”

“Do you realise that I’m very upset with you right now?”

“Yes, and I’m trying to make it up to you.”

“By making me talk dirty to you? Classy.”

“It’s your voice, love.” He spat onto his palm, holding the pen in the other hand as he slicked himself up as much as he could. “And you could help me.”

“I have a headache.”

Bond chuckled. “We aren’t married. You can’t use that excuse.”

Over the line, Q sighed. “I’m serious, I have a migraine, can’t focus, it hurts. A lot.”

His hand dropped from his cock. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s...fine, really.”  Q sighed. “Are you alright? She did have you at a disadvantage.”

“What? Oh, I’m fine. Ego intact, though damaged; I still have my prick, and I have assurances that you are not going to kill me.” Bond strained to hear any sign of distress from Q’s side of the line, a few floors down into the Underground, and other than the strain in his voice, there was nothing save for the music and the zombies.

Q whined a bit into the phone, and all of Bond’s nerves lit up. “Q?”

“I’m fine. Pain. Okay. So. Stop messing with that pen, you are making me nervous.”

Bond looked down at the pen in his hand. He’d been clicking it. “Oh. What’s the click sequence on this thing set for, anyway?”

“No. I’m not telling you, you would be liable to blow up the whole block. Put. It. Down.”

He did as he was told. “You still have the internal cameras working?”

“Of course, it’s a closed circuit...ow... Mary, I don’t care that we can hear the zombies anymore, please turn down the music, thank you!” Q grunted. “Please, just don’t be stupid. You just got played.”

“I did, I know, I walked right into it, but what else was I supposed to do?” He shook his head. “God, I hate her.”

“I don’t know, ignore the little wench?”

Bond’s eyes widened. “Wow, Q, you must be upset if you are calling people names.”

“She essentially raped you at gun point. She’s going to wish she hadn’t.” The way his voice dropped and turned a bit growly got Bond a little excited.

“Keep talking like that, and you’ll have me off in no time.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“How I love being told what to do,” Bond purred into the handset.

“No, Bond, I need you to focus. There’s been a fluctuation in the power grid here.”

He smiled as he stood up, pulling his pants up around his hips and soon-to-be-a-medical- _issue_ erection. “There is a disturbance in the Force.”

“Focus.”

“I am. Power fluctuation. What’s it got to do with us?”

“Not sure, but whatever it is, it doesn’t bode well.”

“Alright.” Bond cradled the phone against his shoulder as he pulled his trousers up and buttoned up and buckled. “So, you are calling either to rip me a new one, or update me with information.”

“Why can’t it be both?”

“Okay, it can be both. So. Are you finished ripping me a new one?”

Q chuckled softly. “James, you will not know what hit you.”

“Shit.” He smiled, even though Q couldn’t see him. “So that leaves information. Do you have a plan yet on how to get out?”

“Possibly.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Well, the rafters plan is a bit...shaky.”

“Oh?”

“I’m thinking of blowing Q branch entirely out.”

“And you yell at me for playing with an exploding pen.” Bond sighed, and shifted uncomfortably in his suit. “Plan. Do you have one?”

“Not sure. It involves the rafters, and as I said, it’s a bit shaky.”

“Why?”

“Because the rafters themselves are shaky, Bond. Also, I finished the crossbow.”

“That’s good. Am I going to have to come get you?”

“I don’t know yet, it’s sort of - “

The phone went dead.

The lights in the office went out.

Outside of the office, people started yelling and shouting and all around making a ruckus.

James Bond’s heart plummeted to the floor.

He grabbed his gun and exploded out of the door, heading to the stairwell. To hell with the fucking plan. He was getting them out of there now. He would think of something on the way.

********   
  
  
  


Mycroft and Gareth looked up from the files spread out over the cleared desk as Anthea walked through the door once more. Mycroft stared at his assistant, and continued staring, swallowing as he read everything. Every. Thing. Strangely enough, every time she used her ‘skills’, he was left feeling scandalized. He just couldn’t help it. He took in her disheveled hair, the wrinkles on the borrowed pantsuit that weren’t there before, and - his eyes dropped to her hands - the bruising on both the knuckles on her left hand and wrapped around her thin wrists. He turned fully to appraise the state of her. “I take it the meeting went well?”

Anthea smiled. “Exactly as expected sir. The agent reacted well.”

“Splendid.” He turned back to Mallory, whose jaw hung slack in horror. “You see? No issues at all.” He smiled at the man.

Mallory sighed finally, closed his mouth, and rolled his eyes. “No, no issue with Agent Bond. But Q is going to kill her.” He shook his head in defeat as Mycroft cocked his head in confusion. “Nevermind. So let’s go through this again.”

Which they didn’t do, because the power went out.

“Oh, shit!” Gareth cursed and dug a torch out of the top drawer. “Now we are in trouble.”

“Forget the council, we need to get out.” Mycroft moved swiftly through the beam of light that the torch provided and grabbed the plans. “We just need to get out, and get out now.”

“How?”

“I’ll figure something out. Come on.”


	25. Holding On to What You Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In where John does something stupid, Porter does something even more stupid, and Sarah is just along for the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there's a vehicle in a store.
> 
> You know the warnings. This is fiction. Deal.

“So. Before we do this.”

Porter paused, hand on the door handle. “Yeah?”

“I want you to...to...oh, hell, careful isn’t even in your lexicon, is it?” John shifted the assault rifle in his hands. “Seriously.”

The commando chuckled. “Not really. Is it in yours?”

“Ha.” That came from Sarah, and John shot her a mock disgusted look.

“Of course it is! I’m the very epitome of careful!”

“You live with a mental patient who likes to grow mold in your mug and has a collection of pink zebra beauty tarantulas and poisonous scorpions beneath his bed.”

John laughed. “One, I don’t use that mug much anymore, since he was able to get another RAMC mug to replace the one that he used for an acid test. Two, he got rid of the tarantulas after a week, and I like scorpions.”

Sarah only pointed at him, and nodded her head at Porter. “See what I mean?”

“They were docile!”

“THEY crawled into your sock drawer, and you nearly went into anaphylaxis!”

“How was I supposed to know that the dresser would have been warm from the radiator?”

“Oh, my God.” Porter dropped his head into his hands. “You two are impossible. And scorpions? Really? You were in the Middle East. Don’t you know better?”

“I was more worried about the camel spiders over there, Porter. Like I said, I like scorpions.”

Porter growled and shivered. “Those fuckers.” He reached for the door again. “I’ll thank you not to mention those fuckers again, Watson.”

“Fine, just...go. I have you back.” John waved his hand. “Go on.”

He made to pull the handle out so he could pop open the door, but suddenly Sarah was halfway into his lap, hands on his face, and a butterfly of a kiss landed on his lips, then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. She pulled back, face beet red, and smiled sheepishly. “For luck. Be careful, Porter.”

He resolutely did not look at Watson in the middle seat with a deadly weapon and a bit of a crazy streak, if his driving had anything to prove. The proverbial ‘boyfriend with a shotgun’ scenario ran through his head as he stepped out and down to the floor, crouching as low as he could along the side of the Rover’s side panels and listening for something - anything - other than the idle of the engine and the distant and ambient sounds of the creatures.

They’d crashed hard through the plate glass sliding doors with no issues. The solid brush guards did their jobs perfectly, protecting the front end from major damage, and the doors actually popped off their tracks easily, so there wasn’t much resistance anyway. The zombies staggering around within the store itself, aimless without prey to chase, were smashed against the guards and crushed under the brush tyres. The main bulk of the creatures, though, were missing or lying dead on the carpeting and tile of the store floor already. Now, granted, the ones from the car park were going to follow them in, but John and Porter already knew that and had planned for it this time. At least, that was the excuse Porter was using as he weaved and slammed into shelving and racks, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake as he tore down the front aisle.

Their first stop was the cart that Porter had left behind, and as of that moment, there were no zombies in sight. He didn’t pick up any noise closer, so he moved out of the safety of the SUV and into the racks of clothing, acutely aware of the very deadly assault rifle that could very well be pointed directly between his shoulder blades, with Watson’s finger at half pressure on the trigger, waiting - just waiting - for a moment that he could shoot and forget, just grab the steering wheel (jesus, he’d left the engine running, and Sarah had to go and do that, and God, he was an idiot, that woman’s taken by a dangerous man and _when the hell did that bother me before_?) and bug out with his girl and fuck the new guy. _‘He has no obligation to me. Hell, he doesn’t even really know me at all. There’s nothing to stop him, save for little Sarah, and would she really get in his way? I don’t think so, not if she knows what’s good for her. That man has several different brands of crazy in him, and I’m messing with at least half of them, I know it.’_ He spotted the cart, then his Browning. He went for the Browning first, snatching that off the floor - and mentally cursed himself for the slip. _‘Fuck, he’s got a reason, I just gave him a reason to fuckin’ kill me. Shit. Well, too late to worry about that now, without it looking suspicious. Deep breath, just go with the flow.’_ He shoved the handgun into the back of his jeans- _‘I hope Watson has an extra clip holster for this thing’_ \- and hooked a hand around the wire of the basket and pulled it behind him as he turned around. The barrel of the assault rifle swept past him and around, finishing a prescribed sweep of the horizon, the smoothness of the movement telling him that his fears were completely unfounded. He felt the line of his shoulders loosen and relax, and he breathed out a soft breath.

 _‘So either Watson is the weakest pushover ever when it comes to women, or this relationship was already on the rocks before I came around. Or it’s already over completely, and Sarah was a clingy one.’_ He shrugged and started moving back to the SUV.

********   
  
  
  
  


John snorted in mild amusement when the commando was far enough away from the half-open window to not overhear. “So. What the ruddy hell was that, love?”

Sarah, he could see in the side mirror that she was blushing even more intensely now. He had to smirk.

“Um, exactly what it looked like. A good luck kiss.”

He snorted again, not believing just how easy it was to just...let go, and feel good about it. “Nuh-uh. That is not a ‘Sarah’ thing. That is not something you do. You don’t kiss strangers, not even for good luck, no matter how fit they are.”

Her blush grew even more, and he had her. He grinned, reached over with his left hand (thankfully, the numbness and pain had faded to the background now, save for twinges. No permanent damage. Very good.) and patted her arm softly, trying to convey just how okay he was with this whole thing. “It’s okay. You like him, don’t you?”

“She smiled sheepishly. “A little.”

“Sarah.”

“Okay, a lot.”

“Good. That’s good, love.” He directed his attention back to the scope. “That’s very good.”

“Um...”

“It’s fine, Sarah. It’s all fine.” He couldn’t help but use the line she’d used on him in the kitchen that day, when he finally admitted to her - and himself - that he liked Sherlock...like _that._

She grinned at him. “Really?”

“Expected more of a fight?”

“Yes, actually. I fully expect you to shoot Porter in the back.”

John laughed. “Oh, no. Not at all. Not my problem.”

Her face took on a sad expression. “It’s just...you and Sherlock - “

“Not here. Let’s wait until we are back at Baker Street before we have this conversation, yeah?”

“ - it’s just that I want to make it easier for you to let me - “

“Sarah.” John’s voice had taken on a tighter note. “Not here. We will discuss this later.” He nodded his head a bit, and Sarah saw the commando coming back.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Another lesson for you. Always be aware of your surroundings.” John smirked, his cheek pushing against the stock of the rifle in his hands, and licked his lips. “It’s fine. I don’t care. Thank you for the thoughts, but it doesn’t matter.”

She smiled, and watched Porter roll the cart around the side to the cargo area and pop the rear door.

“Hey!” He smirked, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “This is great. Jeans, socks, pants and gun. Boots, too, I grabbed those. I’m good now.” He slammed the door again, and made a twirly motion with a stiff index finger.

John snorted and pulled the gun in, not bothering to close the window. “Cheeky bastard. But you do have to admit he is fit.”

Sarah laughed.

********   
  
  
  
  


The next stop was in the camping gear, and the cart John left behind was quickly gathered up and emptied into the cargo bay by both men as Sarah kept watch with her Sig. The foodstuff was a bit harder, seeing as they had to walk over there since the Rover wouldn’t fit through the narrower aisles. They (the men) didn’t want to risk damaging something vital on the SUV, so it stayed. Sarah wanted to take some time to gather up some more food, but the increasing volume of the creatures spurred them to move on. Quickly.

Once safe in the Rover again, with Porter at the wheel, they could breathe easier. Porter twisted in his seat and smiled at Sarah in the back, just a quick little quirk of his lips, and then turned his full attention on John, who’d taken up his previous position in the passenger seat. “Where to next?”

“Home. Our how. We need to get back.” He looked out into the inky black of the store front. “This is going to suck horribly.”

“I know.” Porter checked his gun again, and John mimicked him with the rifle and handgun. “Ready?”

John jerked his head forward, just once, which was enough of a signal for the commando. He shifted into Drive, and flicked on the bright halogen lights, illuminating the path in front of them and the few zombies that swayed towards the noise. Sarah yawned, overcome by exhaustion at last. John turned to her and squeezed her knee.

“Just lay down, love, and try to get some rest. At least a little, yeah?”

She smiled sleepily at him, stretched out on the seat, closed her eyes, and was asleep in a flash. John poked her knee after a couple minutes, and she didn’t respond. He smiled, and leaned forward again, looking out the windscreen.

“Porter.”

The man kept his eyes out front, but he was all ears. He already knew what this fun little conversation was going to be about. “Yeah.”

“Don’t lie to her. Don’t be a dick, or you are going to be missing yours.”

“Alright.”

“Don’t hurt her, or so help me, there will be no place on this Earth you can hide.”

Porter nodded once, and started rolling forward.

“And don’t be afraid to be a little rough with her. She likes to be bitten.”

“Fi- what?” That got him to look at John. “Pull the other one.”

“Not kidding.”

“Nice.” Porter grinned, and John huffed out a hard breath.

“Listen, she’s been through a couple...bad ones, okay?”

“Abusive.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. She’s got the scars, physical and mental.”

“Gotcha.”

“She’ll want to take it slow. Do not push her.”

“Yep.”

John sighed. “Good. Because I will end you.”

“Yep.”

“Then we are in agreement?”

Porter squinted his eyes a bit. “One thing. She likes you. You like her still, or you wouldn’t be threatening me. Why are you letting me take her away from you? You don’t even know me, you are going on blind trust, and you have to admit that this doesn’t look good.”

“Extenuating circumstances, ones that she knows about and...well, it’s all fine.”

“Okay.” He nodded again. “I’ll take as good care of her as I can.”

“Good.” John patted his arm, then squinted at him intently. “How are you doing? Injury-wise?”

“I’m good. Sore. Not feeling...odd, if that’s what you are asking. I didn’t get bit or anything.”

“Good. That’s good. Neither did I. Not sure how we managed not to, in that crowd.”

“I fought one of those ‘new’ ones.”

“That’s why I’m asking, actually. What was it like? How was it different?”

Porter realized that John was talking to fill the silence in the Rover. “Faster, not horribly faster, but enough. Strong as shit, and their eyes are different. Clearer, but still full of insanity.” He sighed, and rolled out of the main entrance they’d destroyed and out into the rather empty car park. The headlamps illuminated pockets of roving zombies, but nothing more. He weaved through them easily. “I don’t ever want to do that again. I don’t ever want to go hand to hand with a fuckin’ zombie ever again. Fuck that. Nope.” He shook his head. “No way.”

John laughed. “Definitely not. That was not fun. And you were going to do that by yourself.”

Porter laughed with him. “I am a bloody idiot, alright?”

“I know that.” He smiled. “It’s fine, really. We all are idiots, even the smartest berk to have ever lived. He’s an idiot too.”

Porter looked at him. “What about you? How’s your shoulder?”

“Working.” John rolled it, wincing at the scraping feeling in the joint. “It’s going to be interesting, and I have some pain medication back at the flat that I can take for it. I’m not too worried about it though, because I can move it, and it’s not numb anymore. Damage to the brachial plexus was what I was the most concerned about, because have you fired one of these bastards with one arm before?”

Porter had to laugh at that. “Yeah, I have. It’s not fun. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone, really.”

“So that would be... oh, shit!”

“What?” Porter started, staring around the night for something howling out of the darkness. There was nothing, but John was rooting around behind him, in his pack, for - “What are those?”

“Petri dishes.” John waved at him. “Stop. Right here is fine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just stop, please? I have to do something for Sherlock.”

********   
  
  
  
  


Sarah jolted awake when she rocked nearly off the bench seat. “Wha - who? What’s going on?” The brakes had been pressed really hard. Could be zombies. She chose to keep her head down, until she heard the door open and shut quietly.

Porter looked back at her as soon as she moved. “Who’s this Sherlock bloke he keeps talking about?”

“What?” She stared blearily around her. “Where’s John?”

“He said he had to get soil samples for ‘Sherlock’. Who is this guy, some sort of scientist?”

She stared at him. “You really don’t know who Sherlock is?”

He sighed, a rough edged sound in the silence of the SUV. “No, I really don’t know who this guy is. Please enlighten me, because the longer we stay idle out here, the more we are in danger, and Watson there, despite his brilliance in normal things, seems to be taking a leave of absence from his better judgement right now, over a bit of fuckin’ soil. So please explain why a man with a solid head on his shoulders would be so fuckin’ stupid?”

He was clearly unhappy about this, and Sarah sat up to better face him, and tried to explain the unexplainable.

“Sherlock Holmes, Porter. He’s...well, he’s a genius. He’s a real, honest to goodness, brilliant man. He’s a bit eccentric - okay, a lot of eccentric, and he doesn’t _get it_. He doesn’t understand even the most basic human interactions that you and I would take for granted. He’s been dragged through the dirt and teased and trodden on so much through his life that he just doesn’t even bother to try anymore. He’s completely mental about some things, like his consulting detective business that he made for himself and bees, and completely clueless about other things, like the solar system and the rugby scores. And John cares about him.” She leaned forward. “John cares more about Sherlock than he cares for his drunkard sister. He cares more about Sherlock than his own health and safety because he will hare off on rooftop chases and Underground shoot outs without even so much as blinking, only because Sherlock said ‘I need you, John’. To John, he’s a kaleidoscope of color in an otherwise grey world. He’s a brilliant prism and a special man, and he saved John’s life, and John’s _killed_ for him, and they -”

She realised that she was describing something she’d been struggling with herself - why John loved Sherlock. And she suddenly got it. She felt a lump form in her throat when her brain clicked. “They need each other. One will not survive without the other. It’s like a symbiotic relationship.” She took a deep breath, and looked down at her sore and dirty hands. “They love each other, I believe. Whether it’s physical, mental, emotional - they are soulmates. If anyone makes it out of this hell, those two will, and they will be laughing maniacally the whole way.” She blinked. “John will do anything for him, including getting out of the vehicle in the dark, in the middle of a zombie outbreak, to gather a few scrapings of dirt and moss for a man that will probably tell him that he got the wrong kind, because he loves him.” She looked up into the most honest blue eyes she’d ever seen - even more honest than John’s. _‘He got it, he understood.’_

“That’s why you are flirting with me, even though you two are -”

“We’re not.” She smiled. “Not anymore.” And John was right. It was fine.

John appeared in the headlamps, a fistfull of petri dishes in one hand, the Browning held in the other. He moved to the passenger side of the Rover.

Sarah squeezed Porter’s shoulder. “I still love him, but I’m letting him go.”

The door popped open, and John climbed in. “Oy vey. Don’t want to do that again. Almost fell into a culvert. Also, hard to see different types of dirt in the dark like that. He’s gonna yell at me, and I get to yell at him back. Just like the old days, yeah?” He smirked over his shoulder at Sarah. “Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to wake you up, but I had to do it, I almost forgot, and then he’d go into a strop and be all dramatic and whiny, and I don’t think I want to deal with that.”

“It’s fine, I was only drowsing anyway.”

“Okay, let’s get going.”

Porter smiled and put it back into gear.

********   
  
  
  
  


The sky finally shed the last bit of light left as they picked their way slowly around the abandoned roadway. With the Rover, the going was much easier. John muttered darkly about something, and Porter notice what it was first. They were passing the ambush site. He grimaced tightly. A mile down the road, he debated turning on the radio, even for the background noise the hissing static would provide. His hand stretched out to bump the radio control on when the low, heavy _thump - thump - thump_ of helicopter rotors floated to his ears.

“Jesus -”

He stomped on the brakes pedal, bringing the SUV to a screeching halt. John jerked his head around at the sound too, but reached out to catch Porter by the shoulder before he could leap out, but only caught air.“Damn it,” he muttered.

Porter was already out of the vehicle, waving his hands and shouting up to the Puma helicopter traveling low - very low - over Marylebone. John watched for a second, then swore and wrenched open his door, ran around the front of the Rover, and bore down on Porter, grabbing the taller man by the shoulders and shaking him. “Stop!”

The commando stared at him as though he’d grown another set of ears on his forehead. “Are you fuckin’ nuts, Watson? That’s a helicopter!”

“Yes, it’s a helicopter. Congratulations, you can distinguish rotor noise from jets. Get back into the vehicle.”

“What - no!” Porter waved his hands wildly and yelled, “Hey! We’re down here, come ON!” His deep voice carried over the stillness of the roadway, but not quite far enough to grab the attention of the pilots, apparently, since they flew on. The man fidgeted forward, jerking his head and screaming up at the sky in frustration. “Son of a bitch, come _back_! We’re here! _Fuck_!” He couldn’t get the whole tirade out because John grabbed him by his shirt front and swung him around to slam him up against the side of the Rover. The breath was knocked from his lungs, and he could barely draw enough to gasp, “Watson!”

“Shut the hell up and listen to me.” John’s voice hissed out of his throat, barely audible but full of anger and shock. Porter growled at him and jerked against his restraining hands.

“Let me go!”

“Listen.”

“Fuckin’ -”

John pulled him away from the SUV only to really throw him against the steel, his head bouncing painfully off the tempered glass of the window. “Shut up!” His hands flexed in the shirt and he stared hard at the commando, blue eyes turning icy cold. “Shut up and listen. They are not coming back. They are not going to stop. They are not going to land and pick us up and save us. We do not exist!” He jerked his hands against Porter’s shoulders for emphasis. “We are in a black zone, Porter. No one comes in, no one leaves. We are on our own.”

Porter’s wide eyes locked with his, dawning with realization. “Watson -”

“The only thing you are accomplishing right now is making enough noise to alert the creatures around us and drawing them here. Get the fuck back into the Rover. Passenger side.” He let Porter go, and the man stayed rooted to the spot, shocked. “Now, damn it!” John barked.

The soldier’s instinct finally kicked in, and he moved, rounding the front and climbing into the other side, sitting silently and staring straight forward. John waited for a minute, waiting for the possibility - slim - that the helicopter would turn around and prove him wrong. He seethed for that minute, incredibly pissed off at the fucker who’d overflown them and sparked hope in a desperate man’s heart, hoping beyond hope that the bastard would land so that he could clean his clock.

The rotors faded completely away, replaced by the sounds of the undead.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the door behind him, shifting the Rover back into gear and sat back in his seat, sighing in an attempt to cool down. Sarah shifted in the seat behind them, and Porter blinked slowly at the windscreen. “Right,” John muttered. He peered at the dash, and spotted the switch for the extra bush lights. “Oh, interesting.” He reached out with a finger and flicked the switch, and bright halogen light flooded the path ahead of them, illuminating  the night and revealing the wall of undead corpses snapping and weaving between the vehicles around them. His heart rate hit the roof. “Not so interesting.”

“I’m sorry.” Porter’s voice was small, apologetic, and not the tone he wanted to hear out of the large man.

John took a steadying breath and pressed the button for the All Wheel Drive option on the dash. “Don’t worry about it. It’s too late now to be sorry.” He glared ahead and stepped on the gas pedal, sending it straight to the floor. The rolling weapon hurtled forward and straight into the roaring, howling masses. The sickening crunches of the creatures breaking against the brush guards and falling beneath the tyres made them flinch, unlike the joy that they’d felt at Tesco. As the sheer press of the bodies surrounding them slowed the forward momentum, John started to question the wisdom of the rash decisions he’d made, starting with the very first one he’d made (deciding that he was paranoid and not convincing Sherlock to take an extended vacation on a yacht in the middle of the Pacific Ocean or a scientific expedition to Antarctica like he’d always wanted to do) up to right about now (snarling under his breath as he fought the wheel and continuing to plow through the sea of the undead), listening to the multitude of animalistic howling and the squeaking of wet hands slapping the windows and sides of the Rover -

He just wanted this nightmare to be over, let it just end and leave him to wake up covered in sweat and screams in the night. Let this just be another nightmare cobbled together by his overactive imagination fueled by war and destruction. Please, let him wake up.

“Wake up,” he muttered. “Wake up, wake up, wake up -”

A hand reached between his and slapped the horn, jerking him out of his mind. He glared at Porter, who shrugged. “Can’t hurt, can it?”

“Actually, it could. It could hurt very much.” John grumbled beneath his breath, even as the creatures directly in front of them quailed from the multi-toned racket. “Except that it’s helping. Their hearing must be exceptional.” He watched the things move away, only to weave back in to slam themselves up against the sides of the Rover. “That’s - actually, that’s a really good plan. Good thinking.” He nodded. “Keep it up.”

Porter smiled, and kept his hand on the steering wheel.

They got a few hundred feet further, aided by the aural assault they were using, when John jerked his head, hearing - _no, he couldn’t be hearing that_ \- rotor noise. Rotor noise again! Oh, Jesus, they came...wait. The familiar deep throb was accompanied by another sound, something a bit different, quieter, more...oh, shit. _Dampened. Shit._

As the creatures around them attempted entry, Porter sat ramrod straight, his hand leaving the horn control as his brain struggled to comprehend what John’s did. Both men reached the same conclusion at pretty much the same time. John threw the gear shift into park and the vehicle rocked and creaked in protest as the men ripped their safety belts off and dove into the back seats, tackling Sarah and covering her with their bodies.

Sarah squawked with indignant confusion. They hadn’t even really waited until the SUV stopped moving, either. “Guys, wha -”

“Incoming,” Porter grunted, as he got a bony knee in his kidney.

“Apache,” John grumbled. “Fuckin’ Apache.”

Sarah squirmed, a thigh pressed against her (surely on accident, but she was having such a nice dream and...well -) “What?”

The response that Porter had for her was drowned out as their whole world exploded and turned into fire around them. Sarah screamed in sudden terror as thunderclap after thunderclap pounded the vehicle, and a rattling whine filled the air between the explosions. She kept screaming throughout the attack, because that’s what it was, and John held onto her, held her tight and kept a running commentary going, trying to fill her ears with something other than the hell that was going on out there. Porter was humming a tune in her other ear, something she didn’t recognize.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but could only have been minutes, it stopped. All at once, there was nothing but the orange glow of fire, the horrific smell of burning decay, and the quick breathing of the men covering her. She shifted, and John groaned, barely audible over the ringing in her ears.

“Fuckin’ hell, a warning shot would have been splendid.” He rubbed one ear with a dirty finger. “Fuck.”

Porter rolled his head on Sarah’s shoulder and hummed in agreement. “You want a warning? I’ll give you one. ‘Alpha One, this is your thirty second warning, we are inbound from the northwest and we are loaded for bear. How copy, over?’ ”

Sarah blinked in confusion, but John barked out a sharp, sardonic laugh. “That’s a copy, thirty seconds out, do not hit my position, I am danger close. Repeat, I am danger close, do not bomb my scrawny Scottish arse off this Earth, over and out.” Now both men were laughing, and Sarah couldn’t believe it.

“We almost died! What was that, and why are you laughing?”

Porter quieted down until he was chuckling, and shifted his position until he was laying half on her and half on the seat so that he could give John breathing room. “That, my love, was an Apache fast attack helicopter who had a very bad day and wanted to take it out on some unsuspecting dead things. Probably the Puma that I was screaming at, too. I heard two rotor signatures out there.” He tilted his head and looked at John. “I don’t hear them anymore, though.”

“I can’t hear a fuckin’ thing, I don’t know what you are talking about.” John worked his jaw around, trying to pop his overpressurized eardrums. “But I’m pretty sure they bugged out.”

“Who?” Sarah muttered, feeling rather frustrated and fuzzy. ‘ _John’s right about not being able to hear much. It feels like I’m swimming.’_

The men looked at each other and shrugged. “Military?” Porter supplied.

“Maybe. Army?” John scrunched his nose up, and settled his weight on Sarah. “Makes sense, really.”

“Yeah.” Porter nodded. “Yeah, that sounds right. I didn’t get a colour when I saw the transport, so...” He shrugged again. “Not sure, either way.”

“Okay.” Sarah pushed at them. “I need to breath, and you two weigh a tonne each.”

John chuckled, and nuzzled her neck. “I don’t wanna get up.”

Porter smirked, and scrunched his hand in her shirt. “Neither do I.”

 _‘Oh my God, this is an idea I should have thought about when we first found this vehicle.’_ Sarah looked at both men, her boys, and blushed fiercely. “Get. Up.” She didn’t know where she got the stern note to her voice, she’d expected it to be breathy and quiet.

John winked and was the first to move, shifting back and onto his knees on the floor, and leans back against the back of his seat. “Okay.” He pushed off the seat, and scanned around. “Wow.”

“What?” Porter had stayed to suck a dark mark into her neck and have a quick grope (which drove her nuts), but his head popped up to look out the rear window. He whistled low, and nodded. “Oh, yeah. That did it.” He moved back, and Sarah finally pushed herself into a sitting position and -

“Oh my word.”

The night was alight in the fires of destruction.

“Good Lord,” she breathed, and held John’s arm in an iron grip, her hands - no, her whole body - shaking. He stroked the skin of her hand soothingly, but it didn’t really help.

Corpses were strewn everywhere, broken and blown apart like trash. Cars and trucks were nothing more than scrap metal now, and many of them were scorched or still flaming, their petrol tanks burst open and leaking, adding fuel to the fires. In the flickering light, they could see the damage caused by the military ordinance that had been unleashed on the once peaceful roadway. Potholes were still smoking in the half light and shadow, scattered where the...”You  know, I’m not sure what happened out there.”

“Rocket pod.” John muttered. “Rockets happened.”

“What?” Sarah looked at him.

“You were assessing the damage. The holes in the road were caused by rockets that missed their targets.”

“Oh. Okay.” She turned her eyes back out to the warzone in front of them. “What were the targets, other than the obvious? I mean, who would use rockets against zombies?”

“I would.” Porter grunted. “I would, definitely, use multiple rockets. Or just cut out the middleman and firebomb the whole lot.” He rubbed his forehead. “But probably the vehicles.”

“Well, I’d hope so.”

“What do you mean?” Porter started climbing up to the passenger seat, then thought better of it, and sat on the bench seat next to Sarah.

John shrugged. “Because that means they actually hit their targets. If their target was us, then they failed miserably. If their target was the zombies, then...oh, _fuck_ me.”

Beside her, Porter uttered an oath and gripped her shoulders. “Down, get down.” The order wasn’t urgent, but he pushed at her shoulders anyway. Before she could ask why, John was scrambling to the front.

“ _Khange khodah_...” he muttered, and slapped the steering wheel. “We need to get the fuck out of here, now.”

“Yeah, now would be nice, now would be great, Sarah, just get down, you don’t want to see this -”

She turned to a window despite Porter’s warnings, and she saw it.

More zombies were staggering out of the ruins of the roadway, and her stomach rolled as she spotted the cause of Porter’s dismay - some of the corpses lying on the road weren’t dead yet. They were missing arms, legs, even entire halves of their bodies - but if their heads were still intact, they were moving, driven by the insatiable hunger within.

“Oh...oh, God...” The words burbled out of her mouth when she saw a few walking corpses that were actually _on fire_. They were still on their feet, howling and reaching for the SUV. “Oh, God.” She hadn’t gone to Sunday services for a long time, much too long, but she still found herself crossing herself and murmuring a small prayer. Porter spoke with her, tightening his grip and still trying to push her down.

John shifted the vehicle into gear again, and put both hands on the wheel. “God can’t help us now. He doesn’t live here anymore.” He said this with so much conviction that Sarah felt almost ashamed that she was bothering to go through the motions.

They started rolling forward through the destruction in front and around them, and save for the occasional curse or squeal as the mangled corpses flung themselves at the Rover, they stayed quiet.

Sarah looked down at the abandoned rifle on the floorboard at her feet and picked it up, making sure it was ‘safe’ before looking at it, turning it over in her hands, stroking the cool metal and slick composite stock. She plucked at the scope and pulled the bolt back to see if there was a round loaded. The round in the chamber popped out at her and bounced off her chest to fall to the floor and roll beneath the driver’s seat.

Porter smiled at her, trying to inject some sort of happiness into it. “Hey. We’re almost done here. Then we get to see your friends again, okay?” She nodded at him, not looking up as she fiddled with the rifle. He pulled her against his wide chest, and she collapsed into him, refusing to look out of the windows as John drove, and cried.


	26. And the Bomb Drops Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In where they make their triumphant return (fifteen minutes late with Starbucks), Sherlock has an epiphany, and Porter is introduced to the group. Someone is not happy about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M/M Kiss. Erm.... nothing else that I can think of. Enjoy!

Sherlock managed to throw up the last sheet of metal as everything went silent.

“Son of a bitch!” Greg groaned and dropped the now useless power drill.

Everything went dark.

“OH MY GOD!”

Everyone freaked out. Well, almost everyone.

Martha poked her head out of her door, holding a brace of electric torches of varying strengths and sizes. “I suppose we’ll be needing these now.”

Sherlock took a calming breath, steadying his jangled nerves, and tried on a smile for the old lady. “Yes. Thank you. Do you have everything you want to take with you out of your flat?”

She nodded, a sweet smile on her lips.

“Good. Head up the stairs, then.”

The panicked racket started to calm in the flat above, and Tim’s voice could be heard from the far side. “Eat as much ice cream and ice lollies as you can before it all melts and creates a disaster! Let the dog have the lollies!”

“I thought he wasn’t having another ice lolly ever again?” Greg grabbed the brightest torch, an actual camping lamp from Martha’s arms and set it on the ground.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Sherlock muttered, setting a few torches in a half circle around the hall, and a couple others on the end table. These were all pointed towards the staircase, and he fiddled with angles until the whole thing was illuminated in a soft glow. “Upstairs with you then, Martha, we are taking this thing out!”

Martha tittered in her motherly way at "all of this destruction, so much mess, surely your mother taught you better than this, Sherlock", and the man smirked. “It’s all for a good cause! We won’t be overrun with zombies tonight! It’s a grand plan, now up the stairs, for the last time, Mrs. Hudson, or I’m handing you a hammer!”

She fluttered her hands and hurried up the stairs, and Greg could only laugh at her. He picked up the lamp again and used it and his touch to find the sledgehammers in the half darkness. Sally leaned out of the open doorway above the men, wrapped in a big fluffy towel and with suds in her hair.

“Oi, hot water’s gone off!”

Sherlock groaned. “Again, with the obvious, doesn’t anyone pay attention anymore? Of course it would be off, the power’s gone!” He scowled. “What about what’s left in the hot water heater?”

“Gone. I was using it.” She shrugged. “And now it’s gone. Can’t finish my hair.”

“Oh, just use the sink!”

“Water pressure’s gone, too.”

He took a deep breath. “So use a water bottle.”

“Sorry.” She stepped out onto the landing. Sherlock jerked his head up and pointed at the doorway.

“No, get back in there, unless you fancy being part of the rubble down here, because I’m not stopping because you have shampoo on your hair!” He waved the finger, and Sally did as she was told, albeit with a few choice words grumbled under her breath.

Greg hefted his hammer onto his shoulder. “Do you want to do the honours?”

“Sure.” Sherlock wrapped his hands around the handle of his. “I have a bit of frustration to work out.”

********   
  
  
  
  


Molly doesn’t curse. She just doesn’t. She’s a good girl. But the whole world was conspiring against her tonight, and the icing on the cake was the vaccine samples, the ones she just worked up, the ones she had in the centrifuge, were just shy of their allotted time when the power failed completely. The whole room went dark, and she...

“Oh, shit!” She surprised herself with the outburst. “Damn it!” She backed away from the table and threw her Moleskine down to the ground, scattering loose pages and her biro. “Stupid power! Stupid, idiotic effing...argh!” She stomped her heel as hard as she could into the floor and screamed in frustration. “I’m so stinking close! So close! Damn it!” She knew she was being a tad bit childish when she started jumping up and down, but short of grabbing Sherlock’s precious microscope and tossing it through a window she had no other means of expressing herself, and she was just so mad right now she could _spit!_ She screamed again, putting as much anger as possible behind it.

The vaccine was almost done, almost done. Well...she said vaccine. It _was_ going to be a vaccine. She banged her fists onto the table and kicked the wooden stool over. “Shit!”

There was a knock at the door. “Are you alright, Molly?” She froze. It was Tim. _Shit._ She ran to the door and yanked it open, nearly toppling the man over.

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting that leg?” She hated that her voice was so high all of a sudden, but she couldn’t help it. She was mad, damn it!

Tim held up John’s old aluminum cane, let out fully for his height. “It’s fine, I’ve got this, I can hobble along.” He stared at her. “Are you alright? You were making a lot of noise in here.”

Molly felt like slumping to the floor and sobbing. “I was so close, Tim. So flipping close, and then the power goes out and I can’t work with it now!”

Tim looked at her, nearly vibrating in anger and sagged against the door frame, and placed his steady hand on her shoulder. “Molly. Listen. It’s going to be alright.”

She shook her head. _'No, no it isn’t. It’s not alright.'_ “No, it isn’t, because this is it! No more power. Done. Kaput!” She pushed his hand away. “No power, no vaccine, no refrigeration, nothing. No cure.” She threw her hands in the air. “Damn it!”

“Wait, back up.” Tim held up the hand she pushed away. “Vaccine? You just said ‘vaccine’, right?”

Molly stared at him. “Is that all you gathered from that?”

“That’s what you said.”

“Oh, wow. Ok.” She finally gave in and sank to her haunches. “It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway. We need a centrifuge to finish it, and power. Power is very important in science, and we have none.”

Tim stood above her, shaking his head. “No. Focus. You said you had a vaccine.”

She closed her eyes. “Had, Tim. We had. Well, actually... not really a vaccine, more of an inhibitor of sorts.” She leaned back against the wood and sighed. “It stops the main part of the ‘z virus’ from getting to the brain and replicating, and also slows down everything else. It’s...hard to explain, because I sort of stumbled upon it, and well, I thought it could be something that we could use in case one of us got bitten, something to tide us over until we could get to some sort of medical centre or get medical attention.” She rolled her head on the door. “But now it’s pointless.”

He pursed his lips, then hobbled back against the door and slid down next to her. “You’ll think of something, Molls. You are smart, the smartest person I know. You can do this.”

“You know Sherlock.”

“You are much smarter than him.” Tim flashed her a grin, and rubbed her hand where it lay on her knee. “So much smarter. You are a thinker. Here.” He shifted his hips. “Let’s get up and rescue those vials before they start doing things in there.”

Molly sniffled, surprising herself once more when she reached up and felt her wet cheeks. Was she really crying? She pushed herself to her feet and turned, holding a hand out for Tim.

“Yeah, there we go. That’s the bad arse who went out into the middle of a horde of zombies with a handgun.” The man grinned, even as he winced at the sharp pain in his knee. “You and John were the first to actually face down the things, right?”

She blinked at him. “Well, more like Sarah and John - “

“No, you stood there with John when those things broke down the door. You were there, and that makes you a hero.” He hobbled over to the centrifuge. “Let’s see about salvaging some of this stuff, okay?”

Molly finally smiled. “Okay.”

********   
  
  


****

The hallway resembled the aftermath of a hurricane - no, a massive tornado -, wood and carpeting strewn everywhere, splinters of a time now gone forever. The flames of the oil lamps that Mrs. Hudson found in her flat flickered and sputtered, throwing dancing shadows on the walls, the sweat streaked faces of Sherlock and Gregory,  the staggered wreckage of the staircase that had stood for decades but now fallen under the combined destructive power of a frustrated detective and a rash plan. Greg slumped on a relatively nail-free pile of wood, a shred of carpet padding his rear, and watched the younger man swinging away madly. The fabric of Sherlock’s shirt darkened at his lower back and under his arms where sweat gathered, making the shirt stick to his skin. “You had enough yet?”

“I’ve -” _whiiistle-_ CRACKcrunch “only started -” _grunt_ “to have fun. Ha.” A hard breath forced its way out of his tired lungs, and he dropped the hammer to the floor at his feet. “Exhausted. Not angry anymore, thereby losing my energy at an increased pace. Hungry, which is more annoying than anything urgent. I wonder if there is any ice cream left -”

Both men froze as something snapped outside.

They didn’t talk, they didn’t breathe, they didn’t even think. Sherlock even willed his cells to stop _replicating so loudly_.

The only noise came from the flat upstairs. Greg gulped down a breath of air, and whispered in Sherlock’s ear.

“I think we are okay.”

“I do hope so.” Sherlock blinked hard, and strained his eyes to try to make something out in the murky darkness of the night, even though he knew his night vision was shot for a while.

They waited for another ten minutes, long enough that Sally came to the door and stood, fully clothed now, with her hands on her hips. “Are you two done destroying Martha’s building?”

Sherlock flapped his hands excitedly at her, while Greg hissed at her to shut up.

Normally, she’d bristle and have a snappy comeback, but not now. Now she clamped her mouth shut and listened along with them.

All was quiet.

They waited some more, just to be safe.

There wasn’t a sound.

Sherlock finally smiled, a wane pull at the corners of his mouth. “We are now clear.” He picked up his weapon of choice once more, hefted it in his hands for a hard swing at the remaining stair -

Far down Baker Street, an engine - the first in a long while - roared.

In his shock, Sherlock dropped the hammer completely, smashing a torch behind him and throwing erratic shadows flitting across the ceiling and walls. Greg had his gun out and tracking like John had taught him to do, and he pulled up close to Sherlock. “What the HELL is that?”

Sherlock’s eyes couldn’t have been any wider, and he sucked in air as he listened intently, his hands held loosely at his sides. “It’s coming this way.”

“Yeah, great, that’s perfect. Raiders?”

“Could be.”

Greg stared as the light from headlamps became visible against the piles of dead bodies cluttering the street. The roar lessened as the headlamps neared, then it stopped entirely, turning into a low rumble that echoed up and down the empty street.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, very wary. “Greg. Be ready to shoot. It could be anything, but I’m not taking the chance. If this is John, then he is more of a genius than I’d previously understood -”

_**HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!** _

The noise startled the men, and then -

“Oi! Sherlock! Are you in there?”

Sherlock’s knees hit the ground before his brain could catch up and tell him that he was going down. All extra thought processes shut down as his mind thundered through his Mind Palace, screeching at the top of its lungs. _‘Breathe, just concentrate on breathing, and you will be alright. John made it home, he’s home, all is well, he’s back.’_ He swallowed a desperate sob and answered his conductor of light, his love, his friend, _his John_ \- “Yes?”

“Come to the door?”

If he could find his voice, he could find his motor skills. He picked himself off the floor with Greg’s help and walked to the half-arsed barricade, a sudden cold spike of fear thrusting into his chest at what he may find. Images of a maimed, bloody, or otherwise injured man - eye missing, arm torn off at the shoulder (it would be his left one, he has less control of that one), ripped skin, burns - His eyes took in John Watson and for a moment his brain refused to comprehend the picture the orbs were sending; bloody body armour, wide grin on his unguarded face, abrasions and bruises adorning his visible skin, his beautiful blue eyes alight with a sparkle that before could only be brought out with a crazy chase over roof tops -

The last thing to cross Sherlock’s mind as it fought to process a healthy and hale Watson was - “Is that ours?”

The Land Rover idled behind the ex-soldier, and John grinned, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “That? It is now. You like it?”

Sherlock nodded, mind finally just stopping all processing to sit down and sort out the sensations building in his chest, his gut, and his head, leaving him numb and not quite sure what planet he was on anymore. John’s alive. He’s alive.

Sarah pushed the rear door open and climbed out, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. _‘She’s alive too, that’s good for John. I don’t know what he would have done if he’d lost her.’_ She waved at him, and he found himself waving back. Funny, he couldn’t feel his fingers. He peered at them, and then to John and Sarah, who stood a distance from each other.

_'Wait.'_

He looked harder.

_‘Different. Something’s different.’_

Then a third person stepped out on the road.

_‘Oh. That’s what’s different.’_

“Huh. John’s picked up a straggler.” Greg came up from behind Sherlock, and smirked, though it didn’t look entirely thrilled. “Hey, John, Sarah!”

Sherlock didn’t really care about what that meant. All he cared about was what was in front of him, and that was a chance. A chance he couldn’t miss. He climbed over the barricade and bounced down the steps. “John.”

John smiled. “Yeah?”

Sherlock felt confident that he was correct about the change in John’s relationship status. He couldn’t wait for more information because...he just couldn’t. The feelings spooling and unraveling in his mind and burning in his eyes could be nothing more that absolute adoration, or he was suffering a stroke and a heart attack at the same time. He no longer cared that people would talk. He didn’t care that John might not have gotten that text he sent, and he didn’t care that John was straight. He said it was all fine, that things were different, and he didn’t care anymore. The bubbling sensations were driving him insane, and the only cure was to push right into his best friend’s personal space, completely ignore his question, reach forward with both hands and take that lovely face into them and kiss him.

Beside them, Sarah laughed; such a pure, shocked, happy sound that Sherlock’s hair tingled, and she looked to the stranger with a gleam in her eye. In his periphery, he could see her mouthing words to the man, and he nodded, reached into the SUV to turn it off and pocket the keys, and graced Sherlock with an approving look. But he couldn’t focus on them right now because John now had his hands on his upper arms and he was - not pushing him away? He’d been ready for anything, any reaction but this one, as John’s eyes slipped closed and he hummed into Sherlock’s closed lips.

Greg and Sally were laughing with delight in the doorway, and hoots and clapping could be heard from the large bay windows above them, but Sherlock couldn’t be bothered with that right now. He was too busy discovering John’s lips. Well, re-discovering. Well - it really wasn’t discovery at all, to be truthful. It was a religious experience. John’s lips weren’t chapped at all, instead they were soft and pliable, with only a hint of dryness and warmth, enough to send shivers crawling up and down Sherlock’s spine. The only real surprise was his own lack of knowledge. What should he do now? There was a line that must be crossed somewhere, he just wasn’t sure where that line was. It frustrated him, and he stroked his thumbs over John’s cheekbones and felt a hand alight on his ribcage and then John’s lips were opening - opening? _‘Oh, dear. What should I do?’_ His brain supplied a bit of information to his jaw, and he opened his mouth too, and tentatively pressed his tongue out, just to dab a bit at his lower lip - only to have a shock as his tongue was met by the wet tip of John’s instead. His head jerked back involuntarily, a movement that he wanted to remedy immediately, how stupid could he be, really? John would take that as a negative reaction, this was bad, very bad...but John was giggling? John was giggling, and the doctor stepped back from the detective’s embrace, his warm hands dropping down to rest on his hips and his tongue tip resting on the slight curve on his lower lip.

“Oh, Sherlock, I missed you too.” The grin on his face was infectious, and Sherlock found his own mouth twisting to match it. John moved his hands to grasp Sherlock’s wrists, and squeezed lightly. “Right now, I want a shower and real food. Eggs. Soft boiled eggs and a bit of toast with jam, yes, that sounds perfect right now.” He groaned in anticipation.

Sherlock closed his eyes, belatedly noticing that he’d gone hard in his pants, and desperately tried to ignore it. “The power’s gone.”

“Power’s been gone for a while, mate.” The condescending tone in the new man’s voice snapped Sherlock’s eyes open again, and he stared at him.

“Not here. It went just three hours ago.” He snarled a lip up, then looked to John again.

“Huh. Well, the party had to end sometime.” He shrugged, resigned to a fate Sherlock didn’t understand. “Well, looks like a hot shower is out of the question, unless we are building a bonfire out here. But we do need hot water for cleaning wounds and what have you. Do you think we can get a fire going in the fireplace, Sherlock?”

Behind him, Sally snorted. “By the devil, why the hell didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you aren’t the brightest bulb in the package,” Sherlock muttered. _‘Then again, I didn’t think of it either.’_

Sally snorted again at the quip. “You didn’t think of it, either.”

Sherlock could only laugh at the realisation that they’d had the same brain wave, nearly at the same moment. Either he was losing brain cells, or she was getting smarter. He almost said as much, but figured he was already pushing his luck (and his tenuous friendship with the woman), so he kept his mouth sealed and nodded at John. “Yes. I can get the fireplace going, but I’m not sure if we have a kettle.”

“I think there’s one in the attic, actually.” John was once again the man in charge, and Sherlock fell back into his reversed role with aplomb.

“I’ll go find it.”

“Let’s all get back inside before any walkers come out and try to eat us.” John grunted. “Help us carry the gear in?” He looked at Sherlock hopefully. “We’ve got a bit, and it’ll be rough to get everything up the stairs -” He started moving past the taller man, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him dead.

“I, um...”

“Sherlock?”

“May have destroyed the stairs.”

John’s eyebrows met his hairline. “You did what now?”

“Destroyed the stairs. Do keep up.”

He could only smile as John’s face adopted his trademark confused exasperation expression. “The stairs...why?”

“So zombies can’t get up to the flat.”

“Oh. Uh...good work.” He tilted his head to the side a bit, and Sherlock’s smile grew. He looked around himself. Sarah was engaged with Greg and Sally, the three of them talking about things he didn’t care about. John was talking to him still, so that left the stranger, who relaxed against the Land Rover and watched everyone...everything.

“Sherlock?”

His head swiveled until he had his precious John back in his sights. “Sorry. Were you talking?”

John sighed. “Oh, yes, so glad I’m home. Yes. I was saying something. To you. Do keep up.”

Hearing his own words turned on him made him smirk. Then John grinned at him, and his brain did something wonky that made it tingle and he wasn’t too sure that it was healthy to be this _happy_. “What were you saying, then, my good man?”

“Are we going to winch the supplies through the windows, or what?” John set his hands on his hips, licked his lips, then cocked his head, and Sherlock wanted to do things to him.

“No. No.” He squinted, trying to think, and is this what love did to people? If it did, then his brain was in danger of being overwhelmed. “The fire escape.”

“Oh. Should have remembered that. Do you have the alley blocked off, too?”

“No. Didn’t get that far.”

John waved a hand. “No, that’s great, less work for us.” He turned to the other man. “You want to drive this thing around the back to the fire escape?”

The man smirked. “Can you trust me?”

“Of course!” John’s grin was feral, now. “Besides, I have an L96 and an absolute crack shot right here.” He patted Sherlock on the shoulder, and turned him to face the stranger. “Sherlock Holmes, meet John Porter. John Porter, meet Sherlock Holmes. Do try not to punch him.” He peered at both men. “Either of you, because apparently you have turned into a puncher, Sherlock, and I don’t want you breaking your arm on his thick head.”

The man called Porter snorted and sniggered under him breath, muttering something about ‘pansy fuckin’ officer, Army brat’, and John popped him on the shoulder. “I mean it. No punching my man. Got it?”

Sherlock didn’t hear the man’s response because _‘Oh my God, did he just call me his man? I’m his man now?’_ For the second time that night, his knees went wobbly on him, but for an entirely different reason.

********   
  
  
  
  


They were able to get everything into the flat in about fifteen minutes, and there weren’t any creatures to contend with; which, judging by the story Sarah was currently telling around the blazing fireplace, was a very good idea.

John sat on one of the bean bag chairs in front of Anderson’s knee so he could examine it by the light of one of the L.E.D. torches held by Mrs. Hudson. Greg and Sally sat very close together and very close to Tim, with Sally holding onto the man’s hand and Greg chewing on a fingernail. They wanted to listen to the mutterings of their personal mad doctor.

Molly walked over to Sherlock, who perched on the back of the sofa, staring at Porter with a very...intense glare. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

He jabbed an indignant finger at the kitchen and the new John, who sat in front of a bowl of cut up mango and stared at it. “Busy.”

“Um, okay.” She turned, then bent and whispered in his ear, “I may have a vaccine.”

He was on his feet and dragging her into the lab room with a torch gripped in one hand before she could even get to the best part - “Tell me!” Sherlock held her shoulders and shook her lightly. “Tell me you were able to preserve the results, or I shall hide miniature scorpions in your lingerie. Please, please tell me you did it!”

She laughed. “With Tim’s help, of course. I sort of...got upset, and forgot about the big freezer, the one that would retain its temperature much longer than the other ones. We hooked up the emergency generator to it, the one that John picked up from the surplus store?”

Sherlock nodded. “I remember. Didn’t he mean that for the laptops and cells though?”

“Paperweights, now.”

“This is true.” He sighed. “Alright, so how long do we have?”

“Not sure, but I have ice blocks in there too, and a cooler to carry it in for our journey.” She blushed. “Tim actually sat on the couch and spun the last vials in his hands for an hour.”

Sherlock scrunched his face up. “So he’s good for something other than killing zombies and keeping the puppy entertained. Good. Is that a good thing?”

Molly had to laugh again. “Yes, it’s a good thing. Sherlock, aren’t you over your personal vendetta against him yet?”

“Yes. That doesn’t mean that I won’t keep teasing him, nor will he cease with me either. If we do, then it really is the end of the world.” Sherlock winked and patted her shoulders as he released her. “We are collectively smarter than the entire world now.” He hugged her, an impulse that left his head spinning. It apparently left her head spinning as well, because she just stared at him. “You are a genius, and we have accomplished more than you could even know, Molly Hooper. You are brilliant!”

Molly could feel the blush rising in her cheeks, and she fought down the urge to hide it. “Um, I also have something to ask you.” She cleared her throat. “I want to know your opinion on -”

“Mr. John Porter.” Sherlock finished, and leaned against the door, pushing it closed. They were bathed in darkness broken only by the cone of light in Sherlock’s hand. “Easy. He’s military - rather, former military. More recently, he’s been working for the government, most likely for M16 or some variation of it. Intelligence gathering, darker things that aren’t spoken about. Father of one, was married but divorced or possibly living separately. Doesn’t matter really, because the wife died before the apocalypse. The child...a daughter, most likely, has been left behind, she’s older, probably collage age. He’s unhappy with his position in life, was forced into it, an old friend goaded him into it, most likely. He’s a survivor: he hasn’t been in London long, he returned when the television documentation of Toronto took place, and he hasn’t been back here in a long time, too long, long enough to lose even the most rudimentary knowledge of the road systems and buildings because they could be different, construction and the like. He is tagging along to see if he will get a stab at rescuing someone - most likely the daughter, even though she hates him now, for something that he did and didn’t do, and that knowledge weighs heavy on him. He’s a good man overall; he will pull his weight while he is with us, but he most likely will not stick around. The moment he gets a chance, he’s gone. And John knows that.”

Sherlock paused. “He respects John, highly, mostly because of his reputation in the military, but also because of his rank, which tells me that Porter is not a full officer. But he’s obviously used to command, so that would make him a Sergeant at most, since that is the highest non-commissioned position a man could get. He doesn’t have college experience, or chose not to use it to get a commission.” He squinted his eyes. “John respects him back, which cinches the fact that Porter is a sergeant.”

Molly blinked, absolutely shocked out of her socks. “Oh. Wow.”

Sherlock winked at her again. “With all of that said, my professional opinion of Sergeant Porter is that he is a trustworthy individual and a worthy companion.”

“Your personal opinion?”

“My personal opinion is that he should take a cold shower before he starts humping Sarah’s leg. She rarely puts out on the first date, and killing zombies can hardly be counted as such.”

Molly had to cover her mouth quickly to abort the screeching she was about to do, completely overcome with mirth. Sherlock chuckled, the happy expression on his face erasing the last couple of weeks and at least ten years off of him.

********   
  
  
  
  


John sighed and held Tim’s knee lightly between both hands, the joint freshly wrapped and braced, and huffed out a breath through his nose. “You did a good job taking care of this, and it isn’t too bad.” He pursed his lips. “Even if we didn’t have the rover, you wouldn’t have been left behind.” He glanced up at Martha. “Same goes for you, Martha. This isn’t a B-class horror film, or we’d all be dead or zombified right now. No one is getting left behind, and that is final.” He smiled. “But we do have the vehicle, and it has plenty of room, so we don’t have anything to worry about.”

Martha smiled with him, and Sally squeezed Tim’s hand. “He’s going to be okay, then, right?”

“Once that heals up, yeah, he’ll be right as rain.” John closed his medical kit and got to his feet with a groan. “Now I’ve got two others to see to, then we’ve got some packing to do. Sherlock? Molly?” He looked at Greg, who watched him carefully. John met the stare.

“I couldn’t leave him, Greg. He was alone, on foot, with no provisions, and he saved my life.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

“I don’t expect he’ll stick around, though. He’s got someone he’s going to look for whether or not we help him. So there’s that. And with the vehicle, we’ll have more that enough - look, I know what I said.” He was painfully aware that both Sarah and Porter were listening in. “I know what I said, and...” He licked his lips. “I may have been wrong. But I said it so no one would go haring off by themselves, looking for people and getting -”

“You wanted to keep us safe. I know.” Greg huffed. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” He stood up and walked away, the line of his shoulders betraying just how upset he was.

John sighed.

Outside, the zombies roamed the streets.


	27. What Would You Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there are conversations, Porter slips up a little, and Sherlock finally hears the words he needed to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry for the long hiatus. I sort of fell out of the fandom, fell out of the story, hit a brick wall, and got a new job. So everything's been a bit...wild for me. BUT. I have returned to this story, though I can't guarantee regular updates anymore. I truly appreciate those new readers who have discovered Seven Seconds, and I appreciate those of you who have kept checking for new chapters from me. If some of you have given up waiting, I don't blame you. 
> 
> I only hope that I can deliver on this. I love you all.
> 
> xoxoxo - Monster/Jen/axmasmurder

The air inside of 221B hung like a wet duvet over the people occupying it. Their numbers now bolstered by one nearly silent man, they made their plans and preparations without talking in the quiet - well, quiet save for the moans and groans and shifting noises of the creatures outside their fortress. Bags that were packed earlier in the day were gathered in front of the stairwell leading to the attic room, and the newly acquired equipment and food were quickly shoved into the bags John had picked up. Gladstone and Toby wandered from one to another, rubbing and licking and marking them as their territory as only animals could. The whole job couldn’t have taken more than a couple hours, especially with Porter and Watson to urge them on, but to everyone it seemed like a lifetime. They were leaving the safety of the world they’d known and the haven they’d created to keep them safe and venturing out into the unknown world that had possibly been made specifically to wipe their kind off the face of the Earth forever. Needless to say, the mood was somber at best. After the preparations were completed and checks had been made, everyone separated to mull over whatever lurked in the recesses of their minds.

Sarah sat by herself at the kitchen table, quivering in a combination of excitement, worry, and no small amount of sheer nervous energy. Her leg jumped and her heel tapped against the linoleum flooring. After the action of the day, she couldn’t sit still. The memory of the battle of Tesco - as Porter had come to call it, with a smirk on his face and a strange glint in his eye - still wedged itself firmly in her mind, and she wiggled her hands. They itched and ached to have something in them. She pulled her SIG out of its holster.

“That’s the fifth time in an hour you’ve cleaned it.”

Sherlock’s caustic tone made her twitch. She swallowed hard. “I know.” She didn’t look up as he slid the chair next to her out and settled into it in that strangely graceful way of his. “I can’t sleep.”

“No surprise there. John told me of your adventures.” Now she did look at him, and he had a odd pinched look, his brows bunched together and his frown lines creasing the skin around his mouth. “I wish I’d been there. To help.” Glass clinked to the tabletop, and Sarah followed the noise immediately. Sherlock had the dirt samples spread out, notations already scribbled on the tape on the lids.

“There was a helicopter.” _There was more than one_ , she wanted to say. _So much for the Black Zone. Your brother lied._

“I know. John told me.” Sherlock slid the samples around, the glass scraping along the scarred wood. He blinked. “They weren’t looking for survivors.” It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t think so. Well, John doesn’t think so.” She shrugged. “Porter tried getting their attention to no avail.”

“Ah. Understandable. They wouldn’t know who is infected and who isn’t. It would be stupid to just pick some random strangers up and put them into an enclosed flying machine. Very stupid.” Sherlock twitched, a barely noticeable movement of his skin and ears and hairline. “I -” He stopped talking.

Sarah waited, because there was supposed to be a sentence there, she knew it. It was just lodged in his throat, in that incredible mind of his, caught on all the things he couldn’t - and wouldn’t - say. Sherlock took a breath, short and halting.

“I. I don’t…” His eyes traveled to her hands and stayed there, unblinking.

Sarah looked back down at her gun. _Her_ gun. The one she’d fired in self-defence and in anger. The one she’d used to kill someone. She’d killed a lot of someones since this started, only some of them weren’t zombies at all. They’d been human still, human and angry. Scared. Dangerous. She stared hard at the stain of imagined blood on her hands and didn’t push Sherlock.

Finally, he got something out. “You killed people.”

Sarah sighed. “I did.”

“Zombies.” The word was a curse coming out of his mouth.

“Yes.” She licked her lips and swallowed the desert in her mouth.

“And...not zombies.”

She nodded.

“So has John.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And Porter.”

“Yes.”

“It’s fine. It’s all fine. You did...what they would have done. Did do. You are like them. I think.”

“I’m...like them?” She looked up at Sherlock, and had to hold back from either punching the bastard in the nose or hugging him. Either action would be not on. She breathed. He scowled at her.

“You are like them, yes. Obviously. You don’t enjoy what you did, in the clinic, in the road, in the store...but you did it anyway, to help them, to save them…” He huffed and ruffled his fingers through his hair roughly. “I really don’t know where I’m going with this. I don’t know why I’m trying to comfort you.” The scowl disappeared from his face, to be replaced with a confused doe-in-headlights expression. “I don’t know why John brought Porter back with him, but it has Greg up a wall.” He blinked. “I think...I’m doing a lot of thinking lately. I don’t like it. I like thinking, but I don’t like thinking like this.” He flicked his fingers out. “Thinking about people. Thinking about this ridiculous situation we are in... But.” He blinked again. “I think I know why he did it. And I think I know why Greg is angry. But if we don’t do something about it soon, I’m afraid something bad is going to happen and I don’t know how to finish this goddamned sentence. I’m blathering because I don’t know what to do.” He gripped the petri dish in his long-fingered hand. “I don’t know what to fix, but I have to fix it. And I don’t know why I feel like this.”

Sarah smiled. _Oh, you poor bastard. You poor, besotted bastard._ “I think I know what’s going on”

“You do?” Sherlock actually sounded interested, and Sarah’s grin grew.

“Yes. You are suffering from empathy.”

“Oh, kill me.” Sherlock groaned theatrically and threw his hands up. “Kill me now. _Empathy._ Ugh. This is why I don’t _do_ people, Sarah!”

Sarah laughed at him. “Go on, love. You are making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“Am not. Greg is about to strangle John.”

“I highly doubt that, Sherlock.” Sarah took a hand off her gun and grabbed her bottle of water and took a sip. “He respects John too much to attempt such a futile thing.”

“There is something wrong!” Sherlock hissed, then snatched the bottle away from her and shook it in her face. “Can’t you see? John dragged this man home, someone he doesn’t even know, and now Greg is going to leave, and then what?”

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, either.” She took the bottle back. “I’m a doctor, I’ve been a doctor for a long time, and I feel I am qualified to make a diagnosis.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What, _Doctor_ Sawyer, is your expert opinion of this situation?”

“Stress. We are all under an extreme amount of stress.”

“Congratulations, Sarah. You have a brilliant grasp of the obvious.”

Sarah’s smile grew. “John, probably more than the rest of us. Maybe.”

Sherlock nodded.

“You want to fix it? Then take your earlier advice.”

Sherlock stared at her. “What?”

“The advice you gave me? When John was being his usual self?”

Sherlock cocked his head.

She rolled her eyes and snorted. “Go fuck him.”

The noise Sherlock made supplanted the Tesco fight, washed the blood from her fingers and the anger from her mind. He actually verbally sputtered. “Wha - you can’t be serious?”

“Of course I’m serious. You love him. He obviously loves you. Stop being a dork about it and go fellate him or something. Give him a good memory to take with him.” She stopped and sighed. “I still care about him, Sherlock. I may be off my rocker, but I think you are good for him, somehow. You two just...fit, I guess. I give you my express permission to date him, as long as you don’t use him for experiments or hurt him.”

Sherlock’s smile was watery, like it was in danger of turning into something sad. “I’m guaranteed to hurt him, Sarah, and I already use him for experiments.” He pressed his lips together. “Why did you break up with him? I’m not…”

“Because I trust you, and I’m tired of competing with you over him. You clearly can’t live without him. And it’s the end of the bloody world. Make him happy.” She risked touching his shoulder, and Sherlock grunted and leaned into her hand. She didn't know how to feel about that, and clearly neither did he, because he jerked back like she was a live wire. She pressed on. “You love him. More than I could ever love him.”

“But...you share something with him, something I don’t.”

She looked at him.

Sherlock gestured in a wide arc. “Scars. You have scars. He has scars.”

“As do you.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Well, yes, but those scars are -”

“John was the first to look at them and then look away.” She allowed her eyes to settle on Sherlock’s own icy chameleon ones. “Not in disgust, not in pity. He just didn’t mention them. It was as if they didn't exist. And when we finally slept together, he kissed the ones that were the worst and told me that he was glad I am still here.” She pressed her fingers to the butt of the SIG. “He never said they were pretty, never asked why they were there, never glorified them or compared them to his own. And never once did he say I was weaker for them, or stronger because of them.” She sighed. “You probably have already guessed about the arseholes I’ve dated, but -”

Sherlock breathed in, audible and slow. “I...honestly had no idea. About the...well. You know. I knew about the abusive lovers you’ve had. That I could tell immediately. But the...” His eyes turned piercing, the eyes Sarah was used to seeing on him. “They hold no power over you now, that much is obvious. They aren't a badge or a placard. They are part of your past, and John knows that. You’ve never drawn attention to them, nor have you drawn attention to his.”

“Well, other than teasing him about them. I tell him that they make him look manly, and he throws pillows at me.” Sarah picked more at the gun. “He brushes that off, mostly. But I’ve never asked him about how he got them, like, it was always a ‘let’s not talk about past things, let’s talk about now things’ sort of situation.”

Sherlock turned away and looked at the wall. “He’s like that. He doesn’t care about your past. He lives in the present, because he almost never had a present." He paused, and narrowed his eyes. "No. He had a present. He almost never had a future.”

“Then you saw it too.” Sarah slid a hand over his, risking touch again. This time, Sherlock didn't pull away. “The shirt.”

Sherlock grunted. “And the medals. Which, I figured he’d have to have at least one for his service, but I’d not gone further than that. Strange that all the things I’ve picked through of his, and I never once thought about the steamer trunk.”

“I suppose you do have a streak of common sense in you, after all.” Sarah smiled playfully, and Sherlock grinned.

“Perhaps I do. I’d hate to think what John would have done if I’d gone through that before now. I might have ended up as a crime scene.” Sherlock turned thoughtful. “I wonder if he’d ever let me look through it if this never happened. It is like when he walked into the flat shirtless, practically begging me to announce his past to everyone. He'd never have let me do that before. He might be tired of hiding.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “He...doesn’t talk about them. Not the scars, not the medals, not the -” She waved her hand “- rest of it.”

“He doesn’t need to.”

Both Sarah an Sherlock jerked their heads up to stare at John Porter. The tall man pulled a chair out and plopped into it, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Watson and the DI are having a conversation - “ Here, he made air quotes with his fingers “ - in the landlady’s flat.”

Sherlock scowled darkly. “If you are going to travel with us, then you are going to learn our names.”

“Rather not.” Porter stared off to a point past Sherlock’s shoulder.

"That was not a request, Porter."

“Still rather not. Not as bad that way.”

“Bad?” Sarah guessed she knew what he was talking about, but Sherlock pressed. “Bad in what way?”

“When people die.”

Sarah winced. Sherlock had the ammunition he needed to take Porter apart. She wished she could squirrel herself away from this conversation before it came to blows. But Sherlock did something she didn’t expect.

He stayed silent. He watched Porter carefully, but he actually kept his mouth shut. Porter blinked at him. He blinked back.

Porter took a breath. “Sorry. It's a habit.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s...fine.” He swallowed and toyed with the soil samples.

“So what did you need those so badly for that Watson almost got us killed getting?” Porter stuck a finger out and pointed at the one in Sherlock’s grasp.

“Experiments.” The word slipped slowly out of Sherlock’s mouth. “Ones that, in time, I might be able to perform again. Along with the adrenaline experiment and the black mold experiment.”

The oil lamp flickered, scattering shadows on the tabletop. Porter blinked at him. “Experiments. Huh. You really are a scientist.”

“A consulting detective, actually.” Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip. “Well, I was. Before all of this. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

“I was out of the country.” Porter watched the flame in the glass, eyes hooded and calm. “Busy. So no.”

“Ah. Well.” Sherlock fell silent, and all three of them listened to the night, to the creatures outside their walls. They couldn’t hear movement from inside the flat, save for the sleep snufflings of the animals and Tim. Sherlock’s lips quirked up. “We have directions to a safe house outside of London.”

“Where’d you get those?” Porter squinted at him. “A map?”

Sherlock pulled out a folded piece of printer paper from his breast pocket and flipped it open. “I don’t necessarily need a map, but one would be useful. It’s been years since I’ve been there.” He pressed cold fingers to the paper, and slid it to Porter. “My family estate. The Holmes Manor.”

Sarah let out a little gasp. "Really?"

Sherlock nodded dismissively. "It's old and musty and annoying, but it's as safe as anything could be. Out of the city and protected. It should be just perfect for us."

Porter examined the directions. “Huh. That doesn’t look too bad.” He tapped the paper. “It’s just the getting out of London part that’s going to be a problem. I’ve been out there, in the thick of it. A lot of the main arteries are clogged with dead vehicles and dead bodies. Raiders. Zombies. Casualties of both.” The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. “We’d have to take the smaller roads. Yeah, we’d better plot this one out, or we’ll get lost.”

“I have a map in my head.”

Porter settled back in the kitchen chair, tilting it back onto two legs, and stared at Sherlock. “Do you, then?” He didn’t sound skeptical, or boorish. It was a simple statement. Sherlock watched him carefully. “Can you draw it out? From memory?”

Sherlock smiled, something small and breakable. “I could, possibly, yes. I’m not the best artisté, but I could make a passable map.”

“That’s good. You make it, and one of us could clean it up if it needs to be done.” Porter grunted. “On a different note, I wonder why those guys went down to that flat to have their conversation?”

Sarah swallowed and cleared her throat. “Um. Well. John...he told us that we wouldn’t be trying to find anyone, and we wouldn’t be picking up stragglers. It was too dangerous.” She stopped there, and Porter nodded.

“Smart man. He’s not a newbie, I’ll say that much. He's been around, knows that picking up strangers could mean the death of an entire squad.”

“But he came back with you, despite what he said.” Sherlock grunted. “It’s a strain on our supplies, it’s a strain on our plans. We don’t know who you are, what you’ve done -”

“If you are as good as you say you are, Mr. Holmes, then you know exactly who I am and what I’ve done.” It wasn’t an argument. Sherlock found himself beginning to like this Porter. “I know I’m the outsider here -”

“I don’t think that’s the point.” Sarah pressed her lips together. “I think Greg wants to try to find his friend Dimmock.”

Porter nodded shortly. “Yeah. Figured.”

“And they...well.” Sherlock stood up. “Two strong, headstrong 'alpha' males with experience in their respective fields of employ - police officer, soldier and doctor - and rough around the edges, worried and scared and keyed up as they are? What do you possibly think could happen?”

“Heh.” Porter snorted. “A fistfight that I should be keeping score on.” He stood and wandered over to the big freezer, which had turned into a giant cooler in the hours since the power went, and grabbed three beers. He paused, then put the beers back and grabbed the unopened case. “Have at the rest, kids. We’ve got a long haul in front of us, and I need those boys happy and not trying to kill each other.”

  
  
  
  
  


Porter used a rope to lower the beer to the ground floor, then eased himself down after it. He found it a blessing that the landlady’s flat wasn’t on fire. He wouldn’t put it past Watson, after the stories he’d heard about the man. He paused for a moment. In fact, it was quiet. _Well, that didn’t bode well, either._ He tilted his head and frowned, his brows knitting down. He scrunched his nose and squinted, tilting his head the other direction. _Maybe they did kill each other._

Then a peal of laughter cut through the relative silence, and Porter relaxed. He made his way around the wreckage of the staircase and rapped on the door twice, hard.

“C’mon in!” Watson’s voice was level, the tone happy. Porter sucked a breath in through his nose. He knew that this could make or break his tenuous position here. He really was only around because of Watson. Well, Sarah too. But mostly Watson. He opened the door and poked his head in with the intention of ducking if one of them shot at him.

“Are we good?”

The two men, Watson and what’s his name...Greg? _Probably. Greg. Yeah._ They sat comfortably, Watson in the recliner and Greg lounging on the couch. Greg looked up at him and nodded after a long moment of staring. “Yeah. We’re good.”

“Alright.” Porter came further into the light of the oil lamps and held up the case of beer, grinning. “Peace offering.”

“Like you didn’t grab that out of the freezer, you git.” Watson snorted and waved him over. “Well, we could all use a drink after today, I think. Sit down. Let’s figure this out.” He flicked his hand in Greg’s direction. “Greg went through Basic, he’s got a little experience. I think we should plan out what we are going to do from here.”

Porter nodded. “I’ve got Sherlock making a map from memory. You could clean it up after he’s done.” He looked at Greg, who was watching him like a hawk. He pressed his lips together. “Listen. I know I’m the straggler. If you don’t want me here, just let me know, and I’ll fuck off.” Watson made to open his mouth, but Porter held up his hand. “I’m looking for someone. I still want to find her. I’d like the help, if I could get it. But that’s not up to me, and it’s not up to him.” He pointed at Watson, who sat back slowly. Porter suddenly got the feeling he might have misstepped.

“It sort of is.” Greg bit out the words, though his face stayed calm and almost jovial.

 _Whoops, you idiot._ Dumb move. Porter didn’t know how to respond to that. He really didn’t. Because if he continued on with his thought, he’d be undermining what seemed to be the main authority here, and that was Watson, and he should have known that. It would be a big mistake, and a rookie one at that. God, he was a dick and an berk sometimes. He swallowed, knowing just how many eggshells he was treading on. “Okay.” His eyes ticked back and forth, from Watson to Greg. “Alright. Listen. If you don’t want me here -”

“It’s not that.” Greg blew out a hard sigh and scrubbed his hair. “It was a knee-jerk reaction to the whole world being jerked out beneath us like a rug. John wanted to keep us safe. He didn’t want to lose anyone. So he didn’t want us out there on our own, getting ourselves killed by looking for people. And he...well, he knows what he’s doing. He knows what to look for. One of us could have picked up anyone. He, of course, picks up a bloke that could be useful and isn’t a threat. Hopefully.” He looked at Watson for a second, then back to Porter. His expression was somehow soft and hard at the same time. “We would like you to stick around. Apparently, you can help us, too. So we will help you.”

Porter looked away. He opened the case and pulled three beers out, tossing the other men theirs before popping the tab on his. “Let’s drink to it, then.” He held it up, and was joined by Watson and Greg. “To the best future possible in this hellzone.”

“Cheers.” They drank.

  
  
  
  


Sherlock looked up when the door to their flat-turned-fortress opened, admitting to himself that he didn’t really expect any of them to not be injured in some way, shape or form. They were talking quietly amongst themselves, trying not to wake the others who slept in the living room. Sarah shifted, her head rolling on her arm as she settled back down to sleep. “Well, that was quick.”

John Porter stood in the kitchen entrance, watching her. Greg squeezed past the huge man and went to the sink to drop the empty cans. Sherlock didn’t notice those two, though. Well, he did, but only distantly, which was not something he normally did. No, for once he only had eyes for John - _his John_ \- who stood only just behind Porter with a strange expression on his face that was directed towards Sherlock. Sherlock cocked his head and shook it just a little in question. John sighed, and rolled his eyes, sliding past Porter and coming over to where Sherlock sat.

“Come on, then. Up you get.” John pushed the biro out of Sherlock’s hand and took him by the elbow. Sherlock brooked no argument at all. He was just too damned exhausted to. As soon as Sherlock vacated his seat, Porter walked over and sat down next to Sarah, brushing a careful hand over her shoulder blades as she slept.

John led Sherlock out of the kitchen and to the stairs, where they met Greg. He was making his way up. “Oh.” John winced, and Greg tossed him a half-arsed salute.

“Sorry, mate. Old room is taken. Molly is waiting for me.”

John did a classic double take that made Sherlock snort. “Oh, well...I didn’t...um.”

“Yeah.” Greg grinned. “It’s great, isn’t it?”

“So, no hopes of kicking you two out of my bed?”

“Not a chance in Hell, John.” Greg’s grin widened.

Sherlock realised what was about to happen, what was on John’s mind and obviously on his own, and his stomach did all sorts of flips and flops and shimmies. _Excited. Brilliant. This was a thing that was going to happen. Sarah could be the most brilliant person in this flat_. “Then just toss down the extra sheets and a pillow or two. We are going to be busy for a while.” He turned the tables on John, pulling him in the direction of Sherlock’s old room-cum-laboratory. “Come on, John! No time to waste, we are leaving in the morning!”

“Oi! Easy there, tiger!” John giggled and let himself be tugged along. Sherlock pushed open the door and pushed John into the dark room, then followed and shut the door behind him. They were enveloped in complete darkness. Sherlock froze. _Oh God. What do I do now?_ It wasn’t as if he were a virgin, far from it. But the last time he’d actually had intercourse, he’d been rather high and it was with a girl. In fact, he’d never... With a man. _Oh. This could be a minor setback._

John seemed to sense there was a problem. “Sherlock?” Even without the aid of any light, his hand easily found Sherlock’s, and he squeezed lightly. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock licked his lips. “I -” He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to instigate. That was another thing he’d never done. The...instigating an encounter. He twitched a tiny bit, his brain bringing up page after page after page of experiences to draw from and loads of information on the how of it all, but. He took a breath, and John’s hand tightened.

“Love?”

Sherlock gasped. _That word. Oh, that one word._ It thrilled and terrified him.

And then he remembered. This was the exact spot that he and John had shared their very first kiss. It wasn’t much more than a mashing of lips and desperation, but it was a kiss.

_Focus on the now. There might not be a later. There might never be a tomorrow. They could set off a nuclear detonation in the heart of London right this bloody second. There might not be a forever. Don’t think about tomorrow. Only now. Right. Now._

Sherlock made the connection. He pulled John to him, into his arms, wrapped his arms around John, his John, his doctor, his companion, the love of his life and his perfect answer - “John. Oh, John.” He pressed dry lips to John’s forehead, brushing them lightly over a cut on his temple. He traced the lines of John’s forehead with the very tip of his tongue. “You are -”

John hummed against Sherlock’s throat and sagged into his arms completely, letting Sherlock take his entire weight. “God, Sherlock. I think I love you.”

Sherlock blinked in the darkness, and knew in his heart that the words were true. They were true, and they echoed in the halls of his Mind Palace and in the empty spaces of his soul and filled in the dark corners of his whole being. He’d never heard those words uttered to him. About him. He didn’t even feel John grip him by the arms and lower them both to the carpet. He was numb with joy. He wasn’t sure how that could be a sensation, but it was. It was for him. He wanted to say those words back to his lovely John, he wanted so badly to show John just how much he loved him, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and all he could do was cling for dear life to the one anchor he had left. He must have been saying something, he must have been pressing words into where he rested his lips against John’s hair, because John was talking back.

“I know, Sherlock. I know.” He tightened his grip, and Sherlock could feel his muscles shifting under John’s hands, those killing hands, those healing hands. _Splendid things. Lovely things._ He prised one off of his arm and brought it to his lips, kissing each fingertip gently, then running his tongue along the outline of John’s hand. _Sand-salt-blood-metal-hops-me_. Sherlock paused. _Me. He tastes like me._ Thestutter-stop of John’s breath on his hot skin shivered up his spine and curled into a ball of sudden want that dropped right back down through his nervous system, straight to his groin, made him dizzy and giddy. _Oh, God, is this what it feels like to want someone this carnally? This desperately?_ John took another breath against him and leaned closer, lining up their bodies just right, until Sherlock could feel the hard line of his erection against his thigh.

“Oh, John.” That was the only thing he could think of to say, because everything else was getting caught in the traffic jam in his brain. “Oh, John.” He dropped John’s hand and took hold of his face instead, bringing it away from his neck and pressing their foreheads together. “I want this.”

“I want it too.” He couldn’t see John’s face in the darkness, but he could feel John’s hot breath and John’s nose bumping against his and John’s eyelashes fluttering against his eyebrows. “I want _you_.”

Sherlock concurred. He wanted John. He wanted all of John, everything. He wanted John’s taste, John’s skin cells, John’s blood and John’s love. He wanted it all. _Was this love? It must be._ “I adore you, John -”

“Let’s have dinner.” And Sherlock could now feel John’s grin, happy and soft and so undeniably John that it damn near broke his heart that he nearly never got the chance to experience it.

“Then you got my message.”

John blinked against Sherlock’s brow. “No. But I guessed that was what you were going to say.” The grin stayed on his lips.

“Oh, no, John. You didn’t guess.” Sherlock matched the grin as best as he could. “You _observed_.” And then he was overcome with the sudden and all-consuming urge to kiss that grin, to see what it tasted like.

It tasted like heaven.

Their lips slid together, John’s lower lip fitting against the seam of Sherlock’s mouth like it belonged there and nowhere else. This kiss was definitely different than the first kiss of desperation to feel, the second kiss of calm and care, and even the third one of sheer happiness of being together again. Sherlock made another slot in the new section of his Mind Palace for this kiss, because this one was...hungry. Primal. Lustful. Then he stopped thinking altogether because John opened his mouth against his and _took_. It became teeth and tongue and heat and slippery pleasure, and Sherlock found himself making some rather embarrassing noises into John’s mouth. His brain tried to keep up with the different sensations, tried to categorise each into its own little slot in his memory - John’s hands, calloused and warm, spreading and stroking his face and arms; John’s fingers tangling helplessly in his hair and tugging him closer so that he could explore Sherlock’s mouth with his wriggly little tongue; the press of John’s well-muscled chest hard against his own; John’s hot and hard cock pushing against his thigh with each jerk of John’s hips as he slid and rolled against Sherlock -

His brain finally gave up and let him feel instead. And for once in his life, he was so very glad that it shut off, because feeling was so much better than analyzing. So much better.

He whimpered softly into John’s mouth and tightened his grip on John’s face, then drew back because it was all too much and all not enough and - “Oh my Lord. John. Now. Right now. Nothing but right now.”

“Yes, yes,” John muttered, and licked a path along Sherlock’s jaw. “Yes, right now -”

A knock on the door jolted Sherlock from his heaven, and he growled. “We. Are. BUSY!”

“You’re gonna want some cushioning, yeah?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake -” John pushed to his feet. “Greg, you cockblocking son of a bitch!”


	28. No Greater Thing Than a Madman's Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there is plenty of love, heart, and a bit of angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finally delivers on the Johnlock ;)*

After Greg pushed blankets and a couple spare pillows through the doorway, Sherlock and John were finally left completely alone in the dark. Their moment hadn’t been dampened, considering the simmering heat still pooling in Sherlock’s guts. But John was busily smoothing out the covers on the floor and arranging the blankets and pillows and folding a quilt at the foot of their - _their_ \- makeshift bed as if they were only going to sleep. _Methodical. He’s laid out places to sleep before, on sand and blacktop. And now he’s going to have to do it again._ The mere thought of it broke Sherlock’s heart.

“We aren’t going to come back here.” He desperately tried not to make it sound like a question. In the darkness, he couldn’t see John’s head shake, but he could hear the rustle of clothing, and Sherlock knew he’d answer anyway, like any good John would do.

“Probably not for a few years, if ever.” He sighed. “Come over here, love.”

 _Finished making a nest, then._ Sherlock debated taking his clothes off, because that was a thing, right? That’s something a couple does before going to bed. They take off their clothing and lie next to each other, skin on skin, warm bodies curled together. He knelt down onto the duvet, then onto one hip, and plucked at his shirt.

Suddenly, John was there next to him, warm and caring and smoothing his hands - _killing hands, gentle hands, healing hands_ \- over his shoulders, over his chest, to the buttons of his shirt. “Hang on. Let me get this.” His fingers were deft and certainly not shaking as he flicked one button after another out of their holes. Sherlock licked his dry lips.

“We should say goodbye to 221B.”

John laughed, a bright and happy giggle that sounded so much like the ones before the whole world went on a bender. Sherlock’s heart broke a little more at the sound. “What a ridiculous notion. I’m surprised with you, Sherlock Holmes.” John’s head moved, and Sherlock fancied he could see the grin in his eyes. “Sentiment.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that. _Sentiment, yes. But this flat means so much to me. It’s where we truly met, where you met me and my Work. Where we shared joys and sorrows and breathless after-chase takeaways and lazy toast mornings and tea cups upon tea cups full of everything we could say but never did. We are saying those things now._ He looked down when he felt his shirt slip off of bare shoulders and flutter to the floor. John’s hands were on the skin covering his chest and shoulders, and his hands were warm. _Scarred hands, warm hands, so caring and calloused._ John’s name escaped his lips, quiet and as warm as John’s hands, and Sherlock wondered at himself. Usually, he was the one to jump in with both feet, dive into the blue and to hell with the consequences. But now, he hesitated, unsure of his footing. But of course, John was there to steady him. “John,” he said again, just to hear something other than the silence.

“Shush.” And John’s lips were pressing. Not to Sherlock’s lips, where he’d expected, but to his collarbone. Barely a whisper of sensation against an old scar - _Molford case, thief with a sharp knife and even sharper focus, nearly had me before John attacked and subdued him. Ten stitches and a handful of paracetemol and Mongolian takeaway. The first night I got to feel John’s fingers on me, though the local anesthetic dulled the sensations as he stitched the wound closed_ \- and then the very tip of John’s tongue pressed against it and followed it blindly to its terminus at the point of his shoulder, almost as if he was tasting it. Sherlock drew in a shaky breath and wondered if he should ask if it was delicious. It wasn’t until John’s lips moved to a small pucker just over his left nipple - an experiment that sort of exploded and burned straight through his shirt to his skin -  that it occurred to Sherlock that John knew the exact length of of each scar, and the location of the others, small as they were. Even in the dark, he was mouthing at each one, sliding tongue and teeth and lips against the smooth raised skin. Categorising. Like Sherlock had done in the sitting room, but Sherlock had only used his fingers despite wanting to press his face and lips and eyelashes and tongue against John's skin even then. As sensitive as his fingers are, Sherlock could only guess at what John’s starburst scar would feel like against his lips.

_Oh._

_I don't have to guess anymore, do I? I have leave to do what I like._

That realisation had him nearly frantic as he patted at John. “John. Lay down, please.” And wasn’t it just as well that his voice sounded so destroyed and desperate already? They hadn’t done much more than an enthusiastic snog and intimate touching, and he was already to the breaking point, already begging and pleading... “Please, please, let me -”

“Yes.” John leaned up, and by God, he was _panting,_ his breath pushing out of his lungs in hard breaks and sharp inhales that nearly stole Sherlock’s own breath away. “God, yes, love.” He shifted, placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, thumbs pressing into the points of his collarbones, and pulled him down alongside him. From there, Sherlock endeavoured to relieve John of his tee shirt. It took some wrangling and schoolchild giggles, but he was successful.

And then he saw the bandage on John’s stomach.

It was like a bucket of cold water was upended over his head. “John.” His name slipped over his lips in a breathy exhale of emotions he didn’t think he still had - _oh, and how wrong I was -_  different than the halting rasps of before. “What happened?” His left hand strayed from John’s shirt to the bandage, dragging gentle fingers over the dressing. He couldn’t feel clotted blood or stitches, and he couldn’t feel any swelling, so it couldn't have been bad. It didn’t stop the images of John’s innards spilling out over his lap, and Sherlock gasped softly in horror of his own overactive mind.

“Raiders.” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pressed it flat against the bandage, harder than Sherlock liked, but the lack of a wince helped dispel the unwanted pictures in his mind. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” His hand tightened for a moment, then it disappeared only to reappear in Sherlock’s hair and oh, that was something he didn’t know about himself. The feel of John’s fingers carding through his hair in such an intimate way...it felt amazing. His scalp tingled and fizzed with sensation, and Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed happily, the coldness gone from his body and the warmth of arousal returning full force. John’s fingers tightened just a little bit, enough to drag Sherlock down into a hungry kiss that made Sherlock’s feet twitch and his kneecaps tingle and his traitorous cock - which, up to this point had been just another part of his anatomy, easily ignored and forgotten about - throb with every frenzied beat of his equally traitorous heart. Sherlock ran his tongue along John’s just to feel the rumble of a groan roll out of John’s chest. He pressed his hands against the hard muscles of John’s chest, made harder by the sudden need for mortal combat and could feel John’s heart beating just as fast and hard.  

“You are amazing.” Sherlock pulled away and ducked his head down to lap at John’s throat, tasting his pulse. “Brilliant.” He chanced his teeth and nibbled lightly at John’s collarbone, careful not to bite at the knotted scarring at his shoulder. “Perfect.” He dragged his tongue along the outer edge of the starburst, drawing from memory and the raised and dipped skin to mark the exact center. It felt so different from the rest of John’s skin, the different textures of the thinner new epidermis, stronger dermis and fatty hypodermis combining to make an amazing experience. He hummed into John’s shoulder and delighted in the unabashed groan that nearly erupted from his lover. John’s hips rolled almost absently against him, the fabric of their trousers barely masking the hardness between them. John’s hands found their way back into his hair, where they tugged lightly and stroked, nails digging into his scalp and making his nerves sing in pleasure.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John pulled Sherlock’s head back up and panted against his temple. “ _Fuck_ , you are…” He let his breath out in a sigh and pushed his lips against Sherlock’s brow. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “For what?”

“For everything. All of it.” John stroked his left hand down from Sherlock’s scalp, following the sharp lines of his back, bumping his fingers down each vertebrae. “As short as it was, it was a fantastic life, and just what I needed. Thank you.” He pressed another kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, then pulled him full against his body. “I love you, you know. You already know this, but I’ve loved you from the moment we met.” He tucked Sherlock’s head in the crook of his neck, and Sherlock licked a kiss there, at the hollow of John’s throat. John hummed and continued on with his thought. “Mmmm, love, yes. Not this sort of love, not the whole time. But I loved you for what you were. A supernova, a manic hurricane, a fiery ball of colour and life, dropped into my lap one day. I loved you. And I still do, for more reasons now.”

“John, you are barely making any sense...” Sherlock’s heart was in danger of breaking into dust or exploding in his chest. He was having a heart attack - he had to be, because this couldn’t be love. It was too much feeling, too much emotion, too much...everything. But strangely, it felt right. It felt as if it was just enough. He planted his hands onto the covers and duvet and pushed away, rolling onto his back so he could simultaneously remove his trousers and suck in deep breaths to alleviate the ache in his chest. “John, God, you are…” Rustling from his side told him John was likely doing the same thing. “No. You know what? I don’t care.”

The rustling stopped, just a second of non-motion that John did regularly around him. He’d stop whatever he was doing and wait for Sherlock to elaborate on whatever non-sequitur he’d just uttered. And as always, Sherlock delivered.

“We don’t know what we are doing. Your experience with men is limited to frenzied handjobs and oral in the back of a transport or in a foxhole in the middle of the desert." John snorted, but Sherlock pressed on. "Mine is absolutely nil. We don’t have the slightest clue what we are doing, and I don’t care anymore. I want to have sex with you. Sarah told me to shag you, and that is what I’m going to do.”

John let out a half-crazed laugh. “Oh, bloody hell yes. You impossible man. You are mental. Yes. Let’s do this.” He finished taking his dirty jeans off and laid them next to the blanket, and his pants followed, making a barely noticeable noise as he laid them down. Sherlock arched his hips off the floor and shoved his trousers and pants off in one go. _Go big or go home, as they say._ He snickered to himself, then gasped in surprise as warm fingers trailed up his stomach to his sternum.

“My Lord, man, you can be entirely silent when you want to be!”

“And you look absolutely stunning like that.”

Sherlock wanted to know why John could see better in the dark than he could. “I need to study your retinas.”

John giggled. “And I’m not sure if that is a diss to your beautiful body or wondering if I can see better than you.”

“Both, possibly.” Sherlock winced as a sudden wave of _I’m not good enough_ coursed through him. Funny, he’d never bothered with that before. But now, as John looked upon his naked body, Sherlock felt a sudden urge to cover himself. “I’m pale and scrawny and my legs are too long.”

John let out a sigh. “We aren’t going to get into the body image conversation here, right now.” Sherlock could see a slight motion in the dark; John shrugging his shoulders, apparently. “Guess I’m just going to have to show you how beautiful I know you are.”

Before Sherlock could argue or even offer a word of advice about how beauty was in the eye of the beholder and all that nonsense, John pushed him back down to the blankets and kissed him roughly as he moved over Sherlock, settling his shorter but stockier body along Sherlock’s long and thin body and fitting them together better than Sherlock could have ever imagined. It was glorious, feeling the skin-on-skin contact that he’d so obviously been missing. He wriggled and groaned in absolute pleasure beneath John, _his John_ , his brilliant and handsome and amazing John. “Oh, God.”

John dropped his head to the side, thunking it against the padded floor as he matched Sherlock’s groan. “Oh, fuck. Bloody _hell_ , this is too - _god!_ ” He rolled his spine once, twice, shifted his hips, and Sherlock let out a startled and happy yelp as John managed to move them into perfect alignment without his hands to assist. In fact, his hands were fisting into the covers on either side of their heads - Sherlock could feel the fabric pulling from beneath his head. “Fuck, you feel _fantastic,_ Sherlock, God…” John trailed off again and licked up Sherlock’s neck, nipping at the corner of his jaw, running his tongue along the shell of his ear as he pushed his hips against Sherlock.

“Oh!” Sherlock jerked and keened helplessly beneath John’s strong body, feeling safe and loved and utterly magnificent. His whole body was lighting up, his nerves on fire, his fingers tingling where he danced them along John’s spine and sides, tracing the smaller scars and lines of tense muscle where they bunched together with each spine-tingling thrust. Unsurprisingly, his prick was demanding the most attention where it was trapped in a never-ending loop of pleasure against the soft-hardness of John’s own prick and their thighs. Sherlock blinked rapidly and stopped thinking. He stopped thinking and started feeling. In that moment, when he finally let go and just felt, his whole body jerked as if he was attached to a live wire because John had shifted once again, pushed up on his right hand and shoved his left between their already sweaty bodies and grasped - “Oh, shit!”

“Yeah? You like that?” John murmured, dropping his head down to nip at Sherlock’s kiss-bitten lips, and ran his hand along Sherlock’s prick, then pushed both of them together and closed his hand around them. Sherlock dropped his head back and let out a moan that John captured and licked out of his mouth. Then he started to move again, and it was his turn to nearly lose his mind as he rolled his hips, their foreskins sliding along their cocks and slipping in the -

“Oh, god…” Sherlock’s brain stutter-stopped. “What...it’s slippery, feels good, what is…”

John dropped his head against Sherlock’s so that Sherlock could feel his grin. “Gun oil.”

Sherlock moaned, deep and loud in the darkness. “Where on Earth did you - oh!” John squeezed, just a little, just enough pressure to send Sherlock’s heart rate through the proverbial roof. “Ah, perfect. Have - have I told you you are perfect?”

“Every day.” John panted, then his eyelids tightened against Sherlock’s cheek. “ _Christ_.”

“What?” Sherlock could barely catch his breath to speak clearly. Sweat dripped into his eyes; so warm here, so much warmth between them. They were going to set the lab on fire. “John…”

“Close, god, I’m _close_ … fuck, move, Sherlock. Move your hips, love.” John whined and bit his lip. “Fuck me like you said you would.”

Sherlock’s brain sparked out, and he growled. “ _John…_ ” He dug his fingers into John’s hips for leverage as he rolled his spine. “God, John!” Stars swam in the darkness, but he could see John’s face. _Dilation of the pupils during intense arousal, more light is being let in, God, I want to feel him ejaculate. I want to feel him on me, in me, around me, God, I want it all!_  And his body was giving him all the signals of his own impending orgasm. He started to lose his rhythm. “John, please!”

John dropped his head once more, this time sinking his teeth into Sherlock’s trapezius and groaning inarticulately as he shuddered out his orgasm. Sherlock gasped in shock and pleasure at the sensation of John’s cock throbbing against his, against him, spilling onto his stomach, the warmth of his come giving Sherlock goosebumps and sending him over the edge of reason. His vision whited out, his brain slid sideways, and he cried out helplessly, his back arching as he bucked up into John’s hand.

 

 

 

They lay there for a time, just panting at each other, breathing each other in and recovering from their collapse. When Sherlock finally found enough oxygen to jumpstart his brain again, he grinned up at the ceiling. “My God. That.”

John’s arm gave out, and he slid down to lay on Sherlock’s chest. “Yeah.” He sighed in relief and pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder, where he’d bitten a deep red mark. “That.”

“Mmmm. Felt good. Still feels good.” Sherlock huffed out a laugh and wrapped weak arms around his lover. “You aren’t heavy, you are my lover.”

“Oh, get off!” John grunted and giggled.

“I believe I just did.”

“Argh. Are we doing innuendo, now?” John buried his head in the crook of Sherlock’s shoulder. “If we are, fine, great, just not around…” He flopped a hand vaguely in the direction of the door. “...them.”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t ever want to leave. I want to stay here, with you.” He knew what he was saying, and it wasn’t just staying in John’s arms. The unexpected sorrow he felt from the moment he started tearing down the staircase panged in his chest again, warring with the warm after-sex glow and the growing sensation that yes, he really did love John Watson. And now he could say the words. ”I love you.”

“Love you too.” John nuzzled Sherlock’s neck. “So much.”

Sherlock hummed at him. “Think we could again?”

John laughed. “God, I don’t know...refractory period. I’m damn near forty, can't get it up like a teenager anymore.”

“Ugh, who cares.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed his belly up against John’s brilliantly hard stomach, careful to avoid the bandage. “Forty, smorty. I’m not that much younger than you, and I’m interested.”

John propped himself up again and Sherlock swore he could see the grin in the dark. “Of course you are. Insatiable in everything you do, aren’t you?”

Sherlock sighed happily. “Unabashedly so, my good man.”

John chuckled. “Well, then. Let’s see if you can.”

Sherlock scowled slightly. “What are you…” The last word trailed off as John shifted downwards. “...oh, _lovely._ ” He breathed out slowly as John kissed his way down his abdomen, leaving a trail of love nips and wet licks and presses of lips that left goosebumps racing along his skin.

“Oh, lovely.” He let the word rumble out in the lower registers, and the sudden growl John pressed into the skin below Sherlock’s belly button lit his nerves on fire once more. He could already feel himself stirring to life under John’s careful touch. “John, you are an utter maestro.”

When John licked wetly up his awakening prick, Sherlock keened softly and fisted his hands into the covers. He felt John grin against his inner thigh as he explored the skin there, giving the same attention he’d given his belly. “....ooooooh…” He stopped breathing for a moment to see if the sensations would increase. He had to halt that experiment when John tucked his fingers under his prick and lifted it into his _oh, so warm_ mouth. Sherlock rocked his head back against the floor again, resisting the urge to fist his hands into John’s shorter hair. He’d expected...well, he didn’t know what he’d expected. Not the gentle, soft wet mouth or the tongue dabbing softly at his head, dipping just the tiniest bit into the slit, swirling slowly around the ridge and pressing lightly at the penile bone that was filling and strengthening his erection. “Genius.” The consonant hissed out on his tongue as he licked his dry, swollen lips and gasped in breath after breath on the tail end of bursts of sensation.

“You like this, too, don’t you?” John’s hot breath wafted over the wet head of Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock shivered.

“God, yes.” He was surprised he could still speak. “Don’t stop.”

“Didn’t plan on it.” But John was still gentle, careful, not drilling too much sensation out of Sherlock just yet.

“You...you said you didn’t know what you were - ah! - doing.” Sherlock groaned and threw one arm over his face as John did something with the tip of his tongue that shot lava straight up Sherlock’s spine.

John chuckled. “I didn’t say that. You said it. You also said that what I had was oral experience.” Sherlock could hear the grin in John’s wrecked voice. “I’m fucking _fantastic_ with my tongue.”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered of their own accord as he shuddered at the tone of John’s voice. It was like he’d swallowed a damned cello, it dropped that low. Apparently, John was going to give him a taste of his own bloody medicine. “Shit. John...stop talking and…” He didn’t know if he could finish that sentence, because it was filthy and a bit not on to say…

“And what?” John goaded, licking a wet stripe up the underside of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock jerked.

“Stop...talking and...oh, god, suck my cock!”

“With pleasure, love.” And that was exactly what John did. He still did it carefully, but the heady sensations were now aimed to utterly destroy Sherlock one atom at a time, he was sure of it. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut, he couldn’t stop making noise. John’s slick mouth, his dancing fingers tickling at his scrotum, circling at the base of his prick, now stroking along his perineum... _God, it was too much_...Sherlock sucked in more air and dragged one hand down his own chest, brushing his thumb against one nipple, then the other, his body jerking at the new sparks of pleasure. The arm over his eyes flexed and shifted, and before Sherlock knew what he was doing, it found its way down past his ribs, past his hipbone, and found John’s head bobbing obscenely between his legs.

“Oh, _god_ John. Oh shit.” He moaned when John hummed a little. His hips pushed up just a tiny fraction, just enough to let John have something to push down against with his hands. “God.” He wanted to roll his eyes at the sheer blasphemy his vocabulary took on when he had sex - apparently, it was a thing he did - but he couldn’t muster enough synapses to work together to make that happen. John sucked a little harder, and Sherlock saw stars again, and heat started to boil at the base of his spine again, and he knew he was about to orgasm again again _again_ …

“John!” His fingers wove into John’s hair and tugged a little. “John, please...ugh, I’m -”

With a breathy exhale, John pulled away and whispered brokenly into the dark. “Give it to me. Give me everything. I want it all.” And then he pulled against Sherlock’s hand in his hair and ducked back down. Sherlock swore he was using every centimetre of his mouth to pleasure him, and boy, it was working. Oh, _lord,_ it was working. His skin tingled and his brain flip-flopped, and his poor body tried keeping up with the proceedings. It soon tripped up and fell off the tracks and Sherlock was thrusting up into John’s mouth as he came for the second time in an hour. It was damn near painful, it was damn near an out-of-body experience, and it was damned glorious. His breath whinged out of his lungs, and his whole body just flopped back. His hand fell out of John’s hair and plopped onto his sweaty hip, and Sherlock. Was. Done.

He could hear John chuckling roughly as he made a wet sound in the dark - _Oh._ He swallowed. Somehow, that was unbelievably filthy and hot. And of course, in his compromised state, he had to comment on it. “You swallowed.”

The chuckles turned into a full-throated laugh that sounded just as rough and just a little mortified. “Yeah. Um...easy to hide the evidence.”

Sherlock grinned, despite himself. “Come here. I want to see if I can taste myself in your mouth.”

“Oh my god.” John breathed. “That.” And then he was there, on Sherlock, enveloping him in his arms and kissing him like the world was ending. And in more ways than one, it was.

  
  
  
  
  


Falling asleep in someone’s arms wasn’t anything new for John. In fact, he missed it terribly, had done even before this new thing with Sherlock. He enjoyed the warmth of bodies pressed together, whether they were naked ones or fully clothed ones. He loved the closeness, the breathing of each other’s air, of sharing the spaces in sleep that few people outside the bubble could experience. In the military, one was surrounded by friends, companions, brothers in arms. One was never truly alone, even in sleep.

John missed that something horrid.

He opened his eyes, and Sherlock wasn’t there. How the man was able to get up and move away without waking him would be a mystery for another day. First, though, he had to make sure Sherlock wasn’t having a crisis. No, actually, first he had to make sure that _he_ hadn’t been the one to move away in his sleep and that _he_ wasn’t the one having the crisis. Sure, there had been the military, and he was a bit more experienced than Sherlock thought, but... He stretched and went through the memories of what had to have been mere hours ago, if even that long.

The heated kissing. Greg interrupting. More kissing. Losing his clothes. Pressing himself against Sherlock and rutting until they both came in his hand. And the first blowjob he’d given since Afghanistan.

Not one of those memories tingled even the slightest reaction of ‘I’m not gay’ in his mind. In fact, they were stirring much more carnal reactions, notably in his cock.

John huffed out a quiet laugh. “Well, that answers that.”

“Answers what?”

John searched the darkness for Sherlock.

“No, don’t answer that. You were just thinking through what we just did, making sure you weren’t having any problems with our status change from friends to lovers. Obvious.” A hand settled on his, and John turned towards where Sherlock would be if he could just bloody _see_. “I had to move away from you while you slept, I’m sorry. Are you aware that you are a limpet while you sleep?”

“I could say the same of you.” John remembered the rooftop, how Sarah and Sherlock had gravitated towards him in the morning light.

“Normally, yes. But when you sleep, you are a blast furnace, and I despise being too hot while I sleep.”

John chuckled. “That I can be.” He should apologise for giving off heat like that. No. No, he shouldn’t. Why should he? It’s a bloody bodily function, thank you very freakin’ much! “I’m sure you have ice blocks for feet. Evens out.”

The arm turned into a whole body as Sherlock pressed close to his side, and John smiled as he realised Sherlock was still clothes-less. “No crisis from you, I take it?”

“Hmmm. No. I never had a reason to doubt my sexuality. I never had a reason to test it, either. And it’s not as though it even matters.”

“Not as much, no.” John nodded and wound one arm around Sherlock. “I guess it doesn’t.”

And surprisingly to John, Sherlock actually snuggled into him, wrapping both of his arms around John’s midsection. One hand stroked the scars on his ribs, and the other rubbed at his shoulderblade. “John.” He rested his chin on the crown of John’s head. “I want your skull if you die.”

That was _not_ surprising. “Ah.”

“I might not be able to shoot you in the head if you turn.”

He was definitely not surprised at the dark turn their time together has taken. John pressed his lips together and thought of a reply. As much as Sherlock despised sentimentality, it was apparent that this was much more. _He doesn’t want me to leave him. Ever. Which is...fine, yes, good. But he’s brought up a good point._ “Well, you’d have to. I guess you could keep my ears on a necklace or something morbid like that.”

Sherlock ground his jaw, clenched his teeth. John could feel it through his skull, the skull that Sherlock wanted to preserve. Finally, he huffed. “I suppose. Or your foot. A lucky John’s foot.”

“Just don’t take the one on the bad leg. Not much luck, that one.” John chuckled.

“Sarah would slaughter me. She’d hang me out in pieces and use me as bait for zombies.”

John laughed, the sound harsh and loud in the darkness. “God, yeah. Not to mention everyone else. Might want to stick to something you can hide under your shirt.”

Sherlock hummed and scooted as close as he could on the covers, moulding himself to John. He crooked his knees and encircled John between his legs. From where he was pressed against his hip, John could feel the soft weight of Sherlock’s cock, warm and strangely grounding. John breathed in.

“We’ll be fine.”

Sherlock hummed again.

“I promise.” John hated making empty promises, but he had to say it.

“Don’t.” Sherlock’s embrace tightened. “Don’t, please don’t.”

John didn’t.

  
  
  
  



End file.
